


What Remains to be Seen

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Musketeers' world is rocked when a tragedy befalls them that may change their entire future. While Aramis tries to adjusts to his new reality, they are caught up in a mystery involving the disappearance of the King's gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Howdy! Long time no see! Miss me? Sorry for the long delay between stories, but after my daughter’s wedding in August, real life kind of threw me a curve. All is back to normal now and I was finally able to finish this story. Yay! As always, I have to give credit to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who always makes my stories much better with her insight and wisdom. ☺ And a high five to Jackfan2 for the encouragement! So, without further delay, let’s get to it!! ___

__What Remains to be Seen_ _

__

__Chapter 1_ _

__“Explain again why we’re just sitting here just watching the warehouse when the King’s gold could be right inside those doors?”_ _

__Aramis exchanged a grin with Porthos but remained silent, allowing Athos to field the young Gascon’s question. D’Artagnan’s patience was thin on a good day, and the drizzle and biting wind they were enduring was doing little to keep his eagerness at bay._ _

__Athos sighed and closed his eyes before looking at d’Artagnan with forced calm. “Because, we have no evidence said warehouse is connected to the crime, merely speculation and hearsay from one of Porthos’ rather questionable contacts that the treasure stolen from the royal caravan is within.”_ _

__“Did he just insult my integrity?” Porthos asked, sotto voce._ _

__Aramis’ grin widened. “I believe he insulted your friend’s integrity. I’m sure Athos has no qualms about your honor.”_ _

__Porthos considered the statement for a moment, then shrugged in concession, his eyes never leaving the doors of the warehouse just across the narrow street. “Prichart isn’t exactly a friend and even I suspect his motives, so I suppose I can let it go.”_ _

__Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. “As long as he doesn’t begin insulting your true friends, I applaud your restraint.”_ _

__“Are you two quite done?”_ _

__The two Musketeers exchanged another grin, both turning to Athos and shrugging in unison._ _

__D’Artagnan fought hard to contain his own smile._ _

__They’d been tasked to find the thieves who had attacked and robbed one of the King’s distant cousins while en route to Paris for a visit before continuing on to Rome. Though the royal cousin had come away unscathed, he’d been shaken up, outraged at the rough treatment from the bandits – and the cargo he had been accompanying had been stolen. Louis was livid that these thieves had had the audacity to steal directly from the King himself._ _

__Insulted by the treatment of his relation, Louis had ordered them to track the bandits and bring them before the court so he could exact punishment. While outwardly projecting the image of concern for his cousin, the Musketeers were under no illusion as to the King’s true motivations. Their mission was to ascertain where the thieves had stored the stolen gold and return it to the royal coffers where it belonged._ _

__Movement near the warehouse caught their attention, and the four Musketeers tucked themselves behind the pillars of the opposing building, out of sight of the man cautiously approaching the warehouse. The relentless drizzle had kept traffic on the street to a minimum, most of the Parisians scuttling quickly to their destinations, few loitering outside under the steady rain. The scant populace made concealment more difficult, but the pillars had offered adequate cover, the rain and shadows of early evening further providing effective screens to keep them from view. The man paused in front of the warehouse, tugging the brim of his hat low, obscuring his face. He walked hunched over, masking his true height, a bulky cape concealing his build._ _

__“He doesn’t look suspicious at all.” Aramis’ quiet voice dripped with sarcasm._ _

__Athos grunted in agreement._ _

__The man ducked around the corner of the warehouse and Aramis and Porthos stepped from behind their pillar to follow. As they passed, Athos reached out and grabbed Porthos’ arm, causing the bigger man to pause._ _

__“We have no idea how far these thieves will go to protect their identities,” he warned. “If there is a way inside other than the main doors, do not be foolhardy enough to follow him inside. Return and we will devise a plan to gain access.”_ _

__Porthos nodded, noting the Aramis had already crossed the street and made it to the corner of the warehouse. The marksman pressed up against the wall, shaking the rain from his hat before slinking around the corner as quiet and graceful as a cat. Porthos hurried across the road, hunched as the rain turned into a more impressive deluge, not wanting to leave his friend alone any longer than necessary. They had no idea what these thieves were capable of. They had left the King’s cousin unharmed, but had killed one of the guards when he’d tried to defend the caravan. The cousin had reported at least twenty bandits, though after speaking with the drivers and remaining guard they had ascertain the number was closer to five. They’d only seen one man slinking around, but more could be hiding out of sight. Aramis had already disappeared around the corner into the narrow alley beside the warehouse. Porthos shook his head and quickened his pace, knowing his friend’s natural curiosity had a tendency to overcome his sense of caution and more often than not, lead him into trouble._ _

__As he approached the corner of the warehouse, Porthos swore under his breath as he heard Aramis call out for someone to stop. The order was met with a laugh and another voice saying something low and guttural that Porthos couldn’t quite make out._ _

__Realizing Aramis had confronted the target, Porthos didn’t hesitate as he breached the corner. He stepped out into the narrow alley just as a loud explosion ripped the silence of the early evening. The blast forced him backwards and his legs tangled, tumbling him to the ground. As his head and shoulder made contact with the cobbles of the street, the last thing he remembered was seeing a bright flash and the dark silhouette of Aramis’ body thrown violently through the air._ _

__Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm_ _

__Athos instinctively ducked as the loud explosion rent the quiet patter of rain, twisting to look back toward the warehouse, staring wide-eyed as the debris floated to the ground. He cursed under his breath at the sight of Porthos lying just to the side of the building. The big man was moving, but his actions were sluggish, uncoordinated. He was obviously trying to push himself from the wet cobbles, but lacked the strength to do so._ _

__He glanced to his left, quickly checking on d’Artagnan. The younger man was on his knees, his arms around the pillar for support, blinking rapidly as he shook his head as if to clear it. He caught Athos’ eyes and nodded hesitantly, letting his mentor know he was unharmed. Taking the Gascon at his word, Athos pushed himself from the pillar and bolted across the road, dropping to a knee beside Porthos’ struggling form._ _

__“Lie still,” he ordered, pushing the larger man back to the ground far too easily for his liking. Porthos pushed his hand aside, forcing himself onto an elbow._ _

__“Help…” His voice broke and he launched into a fit, fighting to breathe, his gasps strained between rough, hacking coughs. His normally dark complexion turned bright red as he fought to catch his breath._ _

__“I am endeavoring to do so,” Athos groused, still pressing the man to the ground. He glanced up as d’Artagnan dropped on the wounded man’s other side. “Please, Porthos, stay still so we can –“_ _

__Porthos grabbed Athos’ doublet and yanked, pulling Athos’ face to within inches of his own._ _

__“Ar’mis…” he forced through his clenched teeth. His pointed gaze shifted past Athos’ shoulder and the Musketeer turned, his breath catching in his throat as he noticed the familiar form lying further down the alley._ _

__“Stay with him!” Athos didn’t bother to look to see if d’Artagnan complied, but launched himself down the alley, sliding to a stop next to Aramis’ too still body. The marksman lay on his back, covered with debris, his head turned to the side, one hand lying across his chest. The skin on the exposed hand was red and already blistering._ _

__Desperately tossing aside the splintered wood that partially covered the unconscious man, Athos brushed Aramis’ dark curls from his face, grimacing at the puffy, painful looking burns and weeping gashes across his cheek and forehead. The burns looked no more severe than a bad sunburn and the gashes, though bleeding sluggishly, were not deep, but it was the marksman’s eyes that made Athos’ throat constrict tightly. Although closed in his unconscious state, blood leaked out from beneath the lids, matting the long lashes in dark clumps and running down his cheeks and temples into his hair._ _

__Scuffling footsteps announced Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s arrival, Porthos dropping heavily down beside their wounded friend._ _

__“Is he alive?” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel, his concern easily read in his eyes._ _

__Athos shook himself, silently cursing for not having already checked. He placed a hand on Aramis’ chest, relieved to feel a strong, rapid, heartbeat thumping within._ _

__“His heart is beating.”_ _

__They sighed in collective relief._ _

__Porthos reached out, sliding a hand through his friend’s thick curls. “His eyes…”_ _

__Porthos voice shook with the fear they all felt, and there was little need to elaborate as they all stared at the bright red blood leaking from the marksman’s eyes._ _

__D’Artagnan reached for Aramis’ face, but Athos caught his arm, staying his movement._ _

__“I think it best if we don’t touch them,” he advised. He pulled his scarf from around his neck and folded it, carefully placing the soft material over Aramis’ eyes. Lifting the marksman’s head gently, he wound it behind the unruly curls, tying it securely on the side. He winced as a clump of hair caught in the hasty knot, running his hand over the area in an attempt to comfort._ _

__He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the alley. The explosion had originated at the far end near the back of the warehouse. There were remnants of blackened wood that had probably been gunpowder barrels still smoking, the narrow space littered with wood and debris from crates that had been stacked among the barrels. The man they had followed was long gone. Their quarry had obviously known the warehouse was under surveillance, leading them into a carefully constructed trap. The warehouse itself stood unharmed, the blast being meant to destroy what was in the alley alone._ _

__A low groan brought Athos attention back to the man on the ground and he shifted, laying a hand on his arm, carefully securing the wounded hand to his chest._ _

__“D’Artagnan, head back to the garrison. We’ll need a wagon to transport him. Inform Treville of what has happened and have him send for a physician immediately.”_ _

__D’Artagnan nodded and without a word took off at a sprint._ _

__The explosion had given momentary birth to a fire that had been mostly extinguished by the heavy drizzle, and the smoke from the crates that still burned drifted through the alley, causing Porthos to cough roughly. Athos leaned across Aramis head, attempting to keep the drizzle from hitting the damaged skin of his friend’s face. Belatedly, he noticed Porthos had done the same thing to keep Aramis’ hands dry also. The marksman’s heavy leathers had probably saved the bulk of his body from damage, although Athos had little doubt his back would be sporting some impressive bruising from where he’d landed on the unforgiving cobbles of the alley._ _

__Remembering Porthos had also been caught in the explosion, he glanced toward the bigger man, noting the way he held his left arm against his torso._ _

__“Are you hurt?”_ _

__Porthos’ gaze didn’t leave Aramis’ slack face._ _

__“Shoulder’s out,” he admitted in an unusual moment of candor. “But it’ll keep till we get ‘Mis seen to.”_ _

__Athos nodded, knowing there would be little anyone could do to keep Porthos from Aramis’ side until the man was back to his normal, garrulous self._ _

__“He’ll be all right,” he said softly, unsure of which of them he was trying to convince._ _

__tbc_ _


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Athos shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowed as he studied his friends. The physician had managed to repair Porthos’ shoulder – with much complaining from the man for his brusque manner – and told him to keep it immobile for a few days. Knowing the big man would comply out of concern for Aramis and a need to watch over his friend tempered Athos’ worry, but at this point, he decided to take what he could get and not complain. If Porthos was intent to remain by Aramis’ side, at least he would not be putting undo pressure on his own healing wounds.

Athos followed his friend’s gaze to the unconscious marksman, swallowing thickly at the damage to his handsome face. The physician had assured them the burns were superficial and would leave no scars, but the red, blistering skin looked painful, and Athos found himself thankful Aramis was still unconscious, delaying the inevitable drop back into an aching reality. Although the burns and the man’s state of unconsciousness were of concern, it was the bandage around Aramis’ eyes that caused Athos’ heart to race.

Apparently, it had the same effect on Porthos.

“D’you really believe he’ll be all right?” Porthos’ voice was low, uncharacteristically soft in the quietness of the room. “That he’ll be able to see when this is all done?”

Aramis must have been looking directly into the blast – or so the physician had surmised. He’d obviously managed to raise a hand to protect part of his face, but the physician had shaken his head when he’d pulled open Aramis’ eyes to view the damage. It had been a meticulous and lengthy procedure to pull the small splinters of wood that had embedded themselves into the soft tissue of the normally expressive eyes, but the man had assured them he had found every last one, smiling confidently while he wiped the blood from his patient’s face. As he’d wrapped a bandage securely around the marksman’s head, he had expounded on the miraculous healing powers of the human eye, and he’d given them every reason to believe Aramis would recover with little or no impairment.

“The physician seemed fairly sure,” Athos responded, trying to keep his own doubts buried for Porthos’ sake. “I see no reason to suspect his word.”

A low grunt was the only response. 

The physician’s assurances had lifted the veil of fear that had settled in Athos’ chest since he’d first seen the blood leaking from beneath Aramis’ closed lids, but it hadn’t erased it entirely. Athos knew how much his friend relied on his keen sight – any impairment would have devastating consequences, not only for Aramis, but for the regiment itself. It was Aramis’ uncanny ability to see things others missed that made him so deadly and well suited for this life. His sharp vision had saved their lives more times than he could count and to lose that advantage… he didn’t want to contemplate the cost.

A low moan from the unconscious man brought Porthos’ head up immediately and he shifted himself to the edge of the mattress, his free hand moving to grasp Aramis’ arm, just above the heavily bandaged hand.

“Aramis?”

The marksman’s head moved, his face tilting toward the hushed sound of Porthos’ voice.

“P’rthos?” He cleared his throat and coughed weakly, his brow creasing as he shifted, the pain beginning to take hold. “Wha’ happ’ned?”

“Easy, my friend.” Porthos moved closer, sliding his hand to Aramis’ shoulder. “Try not to move, you took a pretty good blow. Fairly bruised up.”

Aramis hitched a breath and went still. “Back ‘urts.”

Athos moved to the bed, lowering himself to the side, mirroring Porthos. 

“You got caught in an explosion,” he explained. “Hit the ground hard. Your back is bruised, but nothing was broken, though you will be quite sore for a while.”

Aramis nodded, turning his head toward the sound of Athos’ voice. As if suddenly realizing his eyes were covered, he lifted his bandaged hand toward his face, but Porthos caught his wrist, forcing it back down to his stomach.

“You don’t want t’do that, ‘Mis.”

“Why is my face covered?” The marksman’s voice shook. “Why can’t I see?”

“You were burned,” Athos informed him. The sudden tension in his friend’s body had him quickly continuing. “It is nothing to be alarmed about. Your hand and face are red and blistering, but the physician assured us there would be no scarring.”

Porthos’ smile leaked into his voice. “As soon as all that skin peels off, you’ll be just as handsome as ever.”

Aramis sighed, some of the tension draining from his body at his friends’ assurances. “That is good to know.” He smiled tentatively. “My eyes? Why are they bandaged? Were they also burned?”

Athos shook his head before remembering his friend could not see the motion. “No, Aramis. There were splinters of wood embedded. Your eyes were bleeding when we found you.” 

“Not your best look,” Porthos admitted.

Aramis huffed a weak laugh at the attempt at humor.

“The physician removed the splinters and is confident you will make a full recovery.” Athos forced every ounce of doubt from his voice, trying to reassure their friend that all was well. Without being able to see Aramis’ eyes, Athos had no idea if he was successful in convincing his friend of the diagnosis. 

The marksman nodded, swallowing hard before he spoke. “So I am to be blind,” he took a deep breath, “at least for a time.”

“Temporarily,” Porthos reluctantly concurred. He squeezed Aramis’ arm. “It’ll be fine. We won’t leave you alone for a moment.”

Aramis laughed again, stronger and sincere. “That declaration is not as reassuring as you think, my dear friend.”

Porthos smiled and shared a glance with Athos.

“Porthos rarely makes threats he is not willing to support,” the older man intoned.

A soft smile lifted his lips. “Thank you,” Aramis whispered. “Consider me warned.” He moved his head as if searching for something he could not possibly see. “Where is d’Artagnan? Was he injured in the explosion also?”

“D’Artagnan went to the Palace with Captain Treville to report to the King.” At Aramis’ huff of surprise, Athos shrugged. “I thought it better I stay here and keep an eye on the two of you.”

“The two of…” Aramis turned his head toward Porthos. “Porthos?”

With a scathing glance to Athos, the big man squeezed his friend’s arm before moving his hand up to rub against his wounded shoulder. “Just threw my shoulder out,” he admitted. “It’s fine now. Nothing to fret over.”

Aramis reached out to find the sling binding Porthos’ arm to his chest. “Is that all?”

Porthos nodded. “A slight headache, but nothin’ that’ll keep me down.” He took Aramis’ hand and returned it to the bed. “You just worry about you for now, yeah?”

A soft knock on the door caught their attention and they all turned toward the sound as d’Artagnan poked his head into the room. Upon seeing the marksman awake and moving, the younger man smiled and stepped inside.

“You’re awake!” he crossed the room in three strides, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling, Aramis?”

“A bit disoriented,” he pointed to the bandage around his eyes, “but I have been assured of my full recovery.”

D’Artagnan’s look of surprise was met by Athos’ even gaze. 

“Aramis,” Athos redirected the marksman’s attention before d’Artagnan could cast doubt on the assessment. “What do you remember of the explosion?”

Aramis shifted on the bed, wincing as the bruises on his back flared. “I remember the man we were following.”

“Did you see his face?”

Aramis nodded, then snorted a derisive laugh through his nose. “For whatever good that will do now.”

Athos sighed. So their confident assurances weren’t being taken quite as readily as he’d hoped.

“A few weeks, ‘Mis,” Porthos reminded him.

“Right.” Aramis responded quickly. “A few weeks.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Our mysterious stranger had dark hair, his face was swarthy but he wore no beard. There was a scar running down his cheek.” He moved his hand to his face, using a finger to demonstrate. “I didn’t get a look at his eyes, it was too dark, but his clothes were old, worn. He was of the lower classes, or at least that was the impression he was presenting.”

Athos nodded. “Is there anything else?”

“He spoke,” Aramis said, his voice soft with memory. “I ordered him to halt and he turned, laughed, said ‘Goodbye Musketeer’ as if he knew me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It was then I heard the hiss of the fuse. I didn’t realize what it was at first. When I finally realized, I saw the barrels of gunpowder hidden beneath the stacks of crates. I remember a loud explosion, then nothing.” He shrugged, finished with his recital.

“And the man?” D’Artagnan asked. “What happened to him? We found no sign of him in the alley after the explosion. Just you and Porthos.”

“There was a door, to the side of the crates,” Aramis recalled. “He must have ducked into it just before everything went to Hell.”

“We’ll go back to the warehouse and check it out,” Athos decided. “Although I am sure they would have removed any evidence by now.”

“You should have checked it out then,” Aramis admonished.

“We had… other concerns.”

The marksman nodded, a soft smile on his lips.

Athos squeezed his shoulder and stood, pushing his chair back and away from the bed.

“Porthos, keep an eye on him. Try not to let him get into any trouble.” Athos smiled fondly at his wounded friend, knowing Aramis would hear the affection in his voice. “D’Artagnan and I will return to the warehouse and see if we can ascertain who this man is.”

Aramis’ hand shot out and grabbed Athos’ wrist with uncanny accuracy. “Don’t go alone. Take more men with you. We now know what these thieves are capable of.”

Athos patted the hand that held him tight. “I promise we will be diligent. I will inform Treville of our plans.” Aramis relaxed at the promise, falling back against the pillow wearily. “Rest, Aramis.” Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos. “Both of you. We will update you when we return.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s footsteps faded, Aramis sighed and leaned back into the pillow. “For all his skill with diplomacy, Athos is a terrible liar.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “I thought he was doing pretty well.”

Aramis’ smile faded. “Tell me the truth, Porthos. Will I see again?”

The larger man shifted on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his hand against his sore shoulder. “The physician said he pulled all the splinters and debris, and that nothing had pierced the centers of your eyes. The damage wasn’t as severe as it could’ve been, and there is no reason to believe you won’t recover your sight…” 

“But?” 

Porthos studied Aramis’ face and he sighed, unable to lie even when his friend couldn’t see his eyes to recognize it. “But,” he continued reluctantly. “There’s no way of knowing how much your sight will be affected until the eyes heal and the bandage is removed.” He dropped his hand onto Aramis arm and squeezed forcefully. “I’m sorry, ‘Mis. There’s just no real answer right now.”

Aramis nodded, forcing a smile to his lips. To anyone who didn’t know the man, the smile would seem like acceptance. “Well then, I suppose I can only hope for the best. Thank you, Porthos.”

“I expect you’ll be just fine,” Porthos responded with conviction. “If there’s anyone who could survive something like this, fully intact, it’s you. You’re the luckiest bastard I know.”

Aramis chuckled, his features softening at his friend’s unyielding faith. “Lucky in love, my friend. That doesn’t necessarily translate to lucky with gunpowder.”

“You?” Porthos laughed, grunting as his shoulder shifted uncomfortably. “You’re a damn marksman. I would think you and gunpowder are on quite intimate terms.”

Aramis could only nod in agreement. “Point taken.” His brows drew together in a frown as he recognized Porthos’ grunt of pain. “Are you sure your shoulder is all right? I could take a look at it –“

They both froze as the words floated between them, the ridiculousness of the statement registering on both their minds at once.

It was Porthos who recovered first. “Actually, it does hurt a bit. You think you could check it over, make sure it got put back in properly?”

Aramis swallowed, unsure, but nodded. Forcing himself up onto an elbow as Porthos reached forward to push the pillow further up his back in support, he reached his good hand out and placed it against Porthos’ chest, feeling his way to his friend’s wounded shoulder.

“Lean forward,” he instructed as his nimble fingers began to prod the injury.

Porthos did as requested, holding his breath against the throbbing Aramis’ examination elicited. He watched the marksman’s face carefully as the hand pressed into his shoulder, smiling as he saw Aramis slowly relax, his natural need to help taking over, forcing his fears for himself to ebb for the moment.

“The joint feels as if it’s in proper alignment,” Aramis acknowledged, moving his hand down the outside of his arm. “There is still some swelling, but if you are careful to keep it bound, that should abate within a day or two.” He patted Porthos’ arm affectionately and let himself fall back against the pillow, smiling confidently. “I believe you will recover quite quickly, my friend. The physician did an excellent job.”

“Good to know,” Porthos said, pleased with having found a way to keep Aramis from worrying about his own uncertain future for at least a moment. 

The silence returned, comfortable, not as tense as before.

“Thank you.” Aramis’ voice was soft, and the smile that played upon his lips this time was genuine, obviously aware of what his friend had just done for him.

Porthos didn’t need any explanation for the heartfelt words of gratitude. “You’re welcome.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

“This looks so much worse in the light of day,” d’Artagnan muttered as he stepped around another partial crate. “Aramis is lucky he made it out in one piece.”

Athos grunted in response. “Good fortune is a valuable commodity for a Musketeer.”

“Makes me want to stay closer to him in situations such as this,” d’Artagnan chuckled. He looked around the area, shaking his head in wonder. “Or as far away as possible.”

Debris littered the area; metal, clumps of dirt and stone strewn across the narrow width of the alley. The buildings on either side were scarred, blackened by the blast, but still intact. Athos scanned the side of the warehouse, noticing the small door near the rear of the carnage that blended in with the charred stone of the building’s outer wall.

D’Artagnan followed his gaze. “You don’t actually believe they would have left any evidence behind, do you?”

Athos sighed. “No. But one can never be sure of the intelligence of criminals. We should be thorough.”

They made their way through the maze of debris to the door. It was not latched, and with a firm shove of a shoulder, the charred wood gave way, a cloud of dust and smoke billowing from inside.

Waving the haze away, they entered the warehouse, ducking as a pigeon flew past them, escaping into the light of day. There was little light inside, but the open doorway provided enough illumination for them to see the room was empty. There was a pile of straw near the far wall, scattered as if it had been thrown about carelessly, along with a coarse, woven piece of cloth tossed down on the dirt floor.

“Apparently our criminals are more intelligent than hoped.”

D’Artagnan snorted a laugh at his mentor’s comment. “Or they were never here to begin with.”

Athos moved across the floor, squatting down and retrieving the piece of cloth, rubbing it between his fingers.

“They were here.” He held out the cloth as he rose, kicking at the scattered pieces of straw. “This is from one of the bags the gold was transported in.”

D’Artagnan stepped forward and took the bag, looking it over closely. “How can you tell? It just looks like a piece of cloth.”

Athos pointed to a small yellowish cord weaved into one end of the cloth. “There are not many who use a gold cord to secure a bag in transport. That is something used only by the nobility, most notably royalty.”

D’Artagnan leaned toward the doorway, letting the light hit the small piece of rope. “So you think this was part of the treasure the King’s cousin was transporting.”

Athos nodded, letting his eyes roam the empty warehouse. “I believe we should find out who owns this building.”

D’Artagnan nodded, handing the cloth back to the older Musketeer. “And how do we do that?”

Athos strode by him, quickly making his way back to the alley. “We ask.”

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Captain Treville rubbed his chin thoughtfully as Athos reported what they had found in the small warehouse near the docks. The remnant of the bag made it likely the stolen bags of coins had been stored there, but where they had been taken since was going to be difficult to ascertain.

“I believe if we can find the person who owns the building, it could possibly lead us to the thieves,” Athos concluded. He glanced at d’Artagnan, silently asking the Gascon if he had anything to add, but the younger man simply gave him a shrug and quirk of a brow.

“I believe your theory has merit,” Treville shifted forward, placing his elbows on his desk and nodding to the two Musketeers. “The best way to find information such as this would be a consultation with our Minister of Finance, Monsieur Colbert. His records would have tax information concerning the property, and you should be able to find a name within those records.” 

The Captain picked up a quill and dipped it into the inkwell on the corner of the desk, scratching out a quick request on a piece of parchment and signing it with a flourish. He held the parchment out to Athos, who took it with a gracious nod.

“I must warn you, though,” Treville cautioned, “Colbert is a prickly fellow, not normally inclined to entertain such requests. Although the gold was destined to line his coffers, so with luck, he will be cooperative and give you access to the records.”

“We shall tread lightly,” Athos promised. “You have my word.”

“Good,” Treville pulled another piece of parchment from the pile and hunched over it, waving a hand to the two men. “Now go, see your friends. I’m sure Porthos would appreciate the interruption.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis awoke to darkness. It was only a moment before the pain in his hand, face and back took hold, triggering the memory of what had happened to filter through his mind. The air prickled as it drifted across his cheek and forehead, and he turned his head into the cool breeze, sighing as it momentarily quelled the fiery burn of his skin. 

He sighed in frustration. Pain he knew. Pain he could handle – he was a Musketeer after all. But the blindness… that terrified him, making him doubt his ability to stay in control of his fears. He raised a hand to his bandaged eyes, swallowing hard as he fought back the panic that his blindness brought forth. 

Temporary blindness, he corrected himself. He could almost hear Porthos’ insistent voice repeating the words, bringing a tremulous smile to his lips. Though Aramis knew there were no assurances, the memory of his friend’s unrelenting confidence calmed his anxiety.

He turned his head, listening for a sign of the big Musketeer, but he heard nothing; no quiet breathing, no soft snoring, no shuffle of cards or turning of pages. He was alone.

His anxiety increased at the revelation. 

Knowing Porthos had been injured also, he couldn’t condemn him for stepping away, hoping he’d taken the physician’s advice and found his own bed. His hands clenched reflexively and he winced, the bandages rubbing against the burns, setting off the sparks of pain he had just managed to temper. He brought his left hand to his chest, cradling it in his right as he breathed heavily, waiting for the agony to diminish.

After a few moments the pain leveled off, allowing him to take a deep breath and release it, slow and measured. As he lay still, sounds of the day-to-day goings on of the garrison filtered through the window and open door. It was reassuring – as well as a bit disconcerting – to realize that life continued for the other Musketeers, despite his own uncertain future.

The sounds of sparring and good-humored bantering drifted up from below and he found himself craving the company of his brothers. Without the presence of Porthos, Athos or d’Artagnan to distract him, he found himself needing to move – not only to keep his mind off the pain, but to remind himself he was still part of the world outside the door… at least for a little while longer.

Taking a deep breath, he cautiously pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as the bruises on his back flared. Before he could think better of it, he swung his legs to the side of the bed, planting his feet on the ground. It was a strange sensation; being lightheaded when there was nothing but darkness, but he forced himself to breathe evenly, waiting until the spell passed before trying to continue. Once he made it to his feet, he took a moment to orient himself to the picture of the room he saw in his mind. 

The door was to his right, emitting the breeze and beckoning sounds from below. He held his good hand out in front of him and shuffled his feet across the rough wood of the floor, wishing he had a clue as to the location of his boots as his stockings caught on the edges of the worn and scuffed boards.

He smiled as his hand made contact with the wall, and he sidestepped to his left, his shoulder finally bumping into the edge of the heavy wooden door that stood ajar. Stepping around, he felt for the frame, leaning into it as he made his way onto the walkway, reaching for the railing he knew was directly in front of him. The sunlight felt good until it hit the burned side of his face and he flinched at the sudden pain. He quickly shuffled back until he contacted the outer wall of his quarters, and as dignified as possible, slid down the worn wood to the ground.

Aramis wearily leaned his head back and pulled his knees up toward his chest, resting his good arm across them, keeping the bandaged hand tucked securely in his lap. Despite the limitations of his injuries, he couldn’t help but be pleased with his progress thus far. Perhaps a bit of positive thinking was all he needed. As his body began to relax, his senses picked up what was going on around him. 

The sounds of blades clashing, horses stomping and leather creaking were as familiar to him as his own voice. The smell of broiling meat and baking bread wafted up, making his mouth water, and he imagined Serge in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, preparing the day’s meal for the hungry Musketeers. 

He could almost see what was happening around him and he smiled, feeling the comfort of the garrison enfold him like a blanket

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, stopping just before the landing. Aramis recognized the familiar gait.

“I was bored,” he explained, tilting his head up as a large shadow fell across him. “My keeper was negligent on his watch.”

“Your keeper got hungry.” Porthos admitted, stepping around him. The big man dropped to the ground beside him, bumping shoulders as he made himself comfortable. “You should be resting.” 

“I am resting.”

“In bed.”

Aramis shrugged. “Just looking for some fresh air.”

“I left the door open.”

“So you did. I appreciate your forethought. It aided in the ease of my escape.”

Porthos chuckled. “Not much of an escape. I figured you’d be down in the armory, helping Gontard clean the weapons by now.”

Aramis turned toward his friend with a smile. “Not a bad idea. Perhaps a bit later.” He held up his bandaged arm. “I’m sure he would appreciate a helping hand.”

“You always said you could do it blindfolded.” Porthos snorted. “Now would be a good time to put that to the test.”

“I am wounded by your lack of faith, Porthos.” Aramis let his head fall back against the wall, a relaxed smile lifting his lips. He could feel Porthos’ eyes on him and he turned his head toward his friend, waiting.

“You’re feelin’ a bit better, yeah?”

Aramis realized he was. 

“I am,” he said, surprised. His back still ached and his hand and face still throbbed in time with his heart, but he felt lighter. As if the desperate fear of losing his sight had been tempered by the realization that he would not lose his entire hold on life. “Serge is making my favorite lamb stew,” he said with a smile. He listened as Porthos took a deep breath through his nose. 

“You can tell that by the smell, huh?”

Aramis cocked his head, listening to the sounds of life outside. “There are men saddling their horses near the stables. Going out on patrol, I suspect.”

Porthos’ leathers creaked as he leaned forward, no doubt craning his neck to identify the men. “Bruchard and Pierre,” he noted, settling back against the wall. “What else have you figured out?”

“There are two recruits sparring below us.” Aramis turned to listen to the men scuffling in the dirt. “One of them has a tendency to drag his feet too much. The other’s timing is off. Whether wounded or hungover I haven’t decided.”

This time Porthos leaned forward, chuckling as he returned to his position against the wall. “Two new recruits. Looks like one wishes he hadn’t gotten out of bed this morning.”

Aramis grinned smugly.

“You can tell all that just from listenin’?” Porthos’ voice held a hint of wonder. “I’m impressed.”

“I can see the garrison in my head, the sounds, the smells… I guess I never took the time to just sit and take it all in before.” Aramis sobered. “No time like the present, I guess.” He felt the melancholy creeping back in and abruptly changed the subject. “Any word from Athos and d’Artagnan?”

“Yeah, they’re reporting to Treville now. I expect they’ll be up shortly to fill us in.” There was an edge to Porthos’ voice that Aramis couldn’t identify, but he had a fairly good idea what was causing his friend’s unrest.

Aramis nodded. “You can go with them, you know. I’ll be fine here by myself.”

Porthos didn’t respond right away, convincing the marksman he had guessed correctly.

“Nah,” Porthos said dismissively, “They can handle it. Besides, I promised you I wouldn’t leave you alone in this.”

Aramis reached out, finding his friend’s leg and giving it a pat. 

“I appreciate the offer, Porthos, but there is no need.” He smiled and waved his hand toward the courtyard. “My entertainment is right here, and I doubt I will last long anyway. There’s no sense in you sitting around here when you could be more useful helping Athos and d’Artagnan in their quest for information.”

“You sure?”

Aramis nodded with conviction. “I am. I’ll be fine.”

Footsteps on the stairs brought their attention to the landing and Aramis easily recognized d’Artagnan’s quick gait, followed by Athos’ more sedate pace.

“I see you’ve managed to find your way out of your sickbed already,” Athos quipped dryly. He stopped directly across from the two men seated on the deck, the railing creaking as he leaned his weight against it. “I doubt this is exactly what the physician meant when he told you both to rest.”

“Just taking in the sights,” Aramis responded with a charming smile.

Athos snort of surprise was a fitting reward.

“Don’t mind ‘im,” Porthos explained. “He’s been taken by strange humours. Thinks he can see with his ears and nose. Is pretty good at it, too.”

Aramis flung out an arm and swatted his friend unerringly on the chest. “I merely made the decision not to wallow in self pity.”

“How enlightened of you,” Athos remarked.

Aramis nodded in thanks. 

“I’m glad to see you feeling better,” d’Artagnan offered brightly. Aramis could tell the young man’s delight was forced, but knew the sentiment was sincere.

“Worrying helps nothing. Besides, as you’ve all taken such pains to point out, it is only temporary.”

“Of course,” the young man answered quickly. 

Aramis could almost see Athos roll his eyes.

“So,” he continued, hoping to divert the conversation to something more constructive, “I hope your quick return means you found something at the warehouse that could lead us to our thieves.”

He heard d’Artagnan move to lean against the railing as Athos responded. “We believe the gold was stored there. Treville thinks a word with the Minister of Finance is the next move in ascertaining the ownership of the property. We are on our way there now to inquire.”

“Take Porthos,” Aramis said abruptly. “I release him from his vow.”

“How’s that for gratitude,” the big man grumbled. “Fine.” He pushed his way to his feet and stepped across the landing to join the others near the railing. “And what are you going to do while we’re gone?”

Aramis yawned. “I, my friend, am going to take a nice long nap. Something I don’t need a keeper to accomplish.” He held out his good hand, waiting only a moment before three reached out to pull him to his feet.

“All for one,” he quipped, dipping his head, humbled by their concern. “Thank you, my friends. Now go. Find our thieves. I have a few thoughts I would be more than delighted to share with them.”

He felt Porthos hand squeeze his arm as he and d’Artagnan made their way toward the stairs and he leaned back against the wall, waiting for Athos to follow.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Aramis smiled, letting his friend’s quiet concern wash over him. “I am sure. I am safe here, Athos. I know the garrison like the back of my hand. This…,” he waved his hand at the bandage around his eyes, “is not as much a hindrance as I had feared.”

Athos was silent for a moment, no doubt studying the marksman, weighing his words carefully. Finally he pushed himself from the railing and placed a steady hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “We will return by supper. Take care, Aramis.”

Aramis nodded. As he listened to his friend’s footsteps disappear down the stairs, he swallowed at the realization he was again alone. He suddenly felt vulnerable, and the ache of his bruises and burns increased as the distraction of the garrison faded into the background. He felt the weight of his situation once again bearing down, but he was determined not to let the darkness take him. Turning, he groped against the wall to the open door and shuffled back into his room. If he could only find his boots…

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Treville’s assessment of Colbert had been accurate. The Minister of Finance was the type of man who made Athos’ skin itch. Money, power and position were all these types of men held in regard, honor and integrity having no foothold upon their way of thinking. 

Jean-Baptiste Colbert was a small, mousy creature whose position made him believe he was a giant among men. Athos had met many like him in his former life, and was grateful to be able to deal with him from a different perspective now.

“This is highly irregular,” Colbert insisted for the third time. “I cannot understand why His Majesty would consent to this brazen impropriety.”

“And yet, he has,” Athos intoned, forcing himself to keep his voice and face free from the disdain he felt for the man

Treville’s missive had been to the King himself, requesting his men have access to the Minister’s tax records in order to ascertain the owner of the building in which the stolen gold had been stored. Eager to retrieve his treasure, Louis had readily agreed, giving the Musketeers carte blanche to peruse whatever records and information they deemed necessary in their investigation and ordering the Minister to cooperate fully with the soldiers. Colbert had been adamantly opposed to their inquiries until confronted with the King’s order, finally agreeing to their demands and escorting them to the rooms beneath his offices that held the records of taxes and registrations.

Colbert glared coldly as he opened the door and stepped into a large, dank room, lighting an oil lamp situated on the wall beside the door. He waved the three men inside and led them toward a row of tomes on a wooden shelf across the oppressive room.

“These are the records you’ve asked for,” he nodded his head toward a packed bookcase, smiling smugly as the Musketeers’ eyes widened.

“All of them?” Porthos asked, discouraged by the sheer number of volumes crammed onto the shelves in front of them.

“Of course,” Colbert responded, a glint of satisfaction in his eye at Porthos’ awe. “My office keeps meticulous records. I’m sure you will find everything in order.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan sighed as Athos stepped forward. “Thank you, Minister. We will be sure to tell the King of your generous cooperation.”

Seeing Athos words as the dismissal they were, Colbert bowed formally and retreated from the room, leaving the three men staring dispassionately at the record books.

“I should’ve stayed and watched Aramis sleep,” Porthos groaned, pulling a red leather covered tome from the shelf. He opened it, glancing at the rows of numbers and names and shook his head in dismay. “How are we supposed to find anything in this?”

D’Artagnan moved back across the room, lighting a candle from the wick of the oil lamp. Returning, he held the candle up to the books, shedding a bit more light on their task. “They seem to be in alphabetical order,” he announced, slowly moving down the shelf. He pulled another volume and moved to the large wooden table in the center of the room.

“That’d be great if we knew what name we were looking for,” Porthos retorted.

D’artagnan snorted in agreement. “If we knew what name we were looking for, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“But we are here,” Athos broke in. “And as considerable as our task appears, we will find nothing until we begin.”

Porthos sighed, not missing the slight tone of reprimand in his friend’s voice. 

D’Artagnan had the book open and was running his finger down the rows of entries. “It looks as if the names are listed as well as the address of the property.” He looked up with a shrug. “It’ll take some time, but we should be able to find the warehouse entry if we go through each book page by page.”

“The exciting life of a Musketeer,” Porthos groused as he pulled a few volumes from the shelf and dropped them on the table across from d’Artagnan. Dust flew up, and the big man sneezed, waving a hand to brush the cloud aside.

Athos lifted a brow. “At least nobody is shooting at us.”

“Or trying to blow us up,” d’Artagnan added helpfully.

Porthos sneezed again, dropping into a chair reluctantly. “Where’s a good fight when you need one?”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Hours later, Athos rubbed his eyes, frowning at the headache that was beginning to take hold behind his forehead. They had painstakingly gone through more than half of the volumes, page by page, each leaning closer to the candles on the table as their eyes became increasingly tired and irritated by the swirling dust and effort it took to read the scrawling script. 

Porthos slammed another volume closed and rested his forehead against the stack of tomes in front of him. 

“This is useless,” he mumbled into the table.

Athos sighed, knowing the big Musketeer’s patience was nearing an end. 

“We still have several volumes to go. I’m afraid we –“

“I’ve got it!”

Both men looked toward d’Artagnan who held his finger halfway down a page in the center of a book. He looked up excitedly, tapping his finger on the entry.

“Thank God,” Pothos murmured as Athos slammed the book he was searching closed and reached for d’Artagnan’s. His eyes quickly scanned down the page and found the entry the younger man had pointed to. 

“The property is owned by an M. Guillame,” Athos recited. “There’s nothing else under the entry, just the name. No amount, no collection date, nothing.”

“An entry in a tax record that recorded no taxes?” Porthos tilted his head. “That’s not suspicious at all. I thought the Minister claimed these records were in order.”

Athos shrugged. “I suppose things can slip through the proverbial cracks.”

“It’s a start, though,” d’Artagnan said hopefully. “Right?”

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look, neither pleased their time had disclosed only this minor piece information.

“The whelp’s right,” Porthos sighed. “It’s somethin’. More than we had before.” 

“Maybe Colbert has something more on this name,” d’Artagnan suggested.

“Or at least a reasonable explanation as to the brevity of the entry,” Athos pursed his lips in agreement.

Porthos pushed himself from the chair, cracking his back as he stood for the first time in hours. “Then I suggest we find Monsieur Colbert and ask him.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Requisition forms, inventory reports, mission reviews… it was staggering how much paperwork it took to keep a military garrison running efficiently. Treville dropped the quill on the last of the weekly reports and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the spot between his eyes, He hated this part of his job. But, it was a necessary evil and if it resulted in his men receiving the kind of support they deserved from the Palace, he would gladly spend his entire existence inside this small room keeping things in order.

The sounds of the garrison filtered through his window and he pushed himself from the chair, eager to stretch his legs after sitting for so long. He rolled his head to ease the ache in his neck and shoulders – a result of being held so stiffly for hours scrunched behind his desk – as well as the slight headache building behind his eyes. A few moments in the fresh air and warm, late afternoon sun would be more than welcome.

Treville stepped onto the balcony above the main courtyard of the garrison, his eyes roaming, watching and assessing the men who moved about, fulfilling the tasks assigned them. He was not a man prone to vanity, but he was proud of what he’d built. The Musketeers were the elite military force in France, second to none, and Treville had had a large part in making them so. His recruits were handpicked for not only their prowess with blade or pistol, but for their integrity and honor. These men would not only give their lives for King and country, but for each other. It was that bond of brotherhood that made the Musketeer regiment special above all others. 

There were those who had formed even tighter bonds than Treville could’ve hoped for or imagined; three – now four – soldiers whose example of brotherhood and camaraderie had bled across the ranks, giving the regiment its unshakable foundation. As his gaze fell to the table directly below the balcony, his eyes alighted on one of those men, sitting alone, his dark head bowed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

He had not had an opportunity to speak with Aramis since he’d regained consciousness earlier that day, and, from the solitary set of the marksman’s shoulders, he wasn’t in the mood to entertain any inquiries as to his wellbeing now. The table was in shade this late in the day, but Aramis wore his hat pulled low, the wide brim covering his face, hiding his expression from casual observation. Athos had informed him of the burns to the handsome Musketeer’s face and hand, but had assured him the damage was not severe and would heal. Treville had been relieved at the news. Aramis had seemingly always relied on his good looks and charm to breeze his way through life, and Treville had not wanted to consider how the loss of those assets would affect the man. The marksman had seen enough hardship – being the sole survivor of a massacre was more trauma than any man should suffer – and he was pleased the burden of having to learn to deal with such a disfigurement would not be another placed upon his shoulders.

It was obvious there was still a heavy load bearing down on the man from the way he sat, hunched in on himself, and as he raised his head in response to a greeting called out by a passing Musketeer, Treville caught a glimpse of the bandage around his eyes. 

The Captain knew the possibility of losing his sight haunted the man. How could it not? Though they had every reason to believe his eyes would heal without any significant impairment, there were no certainties in life – especially a soldier’s life – and the indeterminate future was daunting even for those who were healthy and whole.

Knowing the rest of the Inseparables were at the Louvre, delving into Monsieur Colbert’s tax archives, Treville felt a sudden urge to check on Aramis in their stead, hoping a kind word or two could alleviate the tension radiating from the wounded man. He made his way down the flight of stairs, stopping on the far side of the table.

Aramis’ head rose as he approached, a soft smile lifting his lips.

“Captain,” the marksman greeted. “I was wondering how long it would take you to make an appearance. I hope the others didn’t task you with keeping me in line.”

Treville chuckled, unsurprised by the man’s perceptiveness. “It seems Athos was right. It didn’t take you long to disregard the doctor’s orders. I believe you are supposed to be resting.”

Aramis ducked his head, sighing dramatically. “So I’ve been reminded.”

Treville grunted in amusement.

“I’m sure you have a fitting excuse for being here and not in your bed where you belong?”

For a moment, the marksman said nothing, then simply shrugged, pulling his bandaged hand close to his chest. “As strange as it may sound, the walls of my room were closing in and I needed to be… anywhere else.”

Treville nodded, understanding the need to escape from an oppressive situation. Even if Aramis could not actually see the walls, it didn’t make the feeling any less valid. They remained silent for a few moments, Treville studying the marksman who was valiantly attempting to present a strong front. Finally, the Captain shifted, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“You’re not alone, Aramis. I hope you know this.”

Aramis nodded, the soft smile returning to his lips. “I know. Thank you, Captain.”

Clearing his throat, Treville took a step away from the table. “If you need anything, call out,” he added gruffly. “There are plenty of your brothers here to lend a hand, and I will be in my office.”

Aramis nodded, his smile sincere. The marksman’s shoulders relaxed marginally, and Treville headed back to work, his heart lighter knowing the brief conversation had lifted the wounded man’s spirit, if only for the moment.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“I’m sure it’s simply an oversight,” Colbert said forcefully. “As meticulous as our records are, it does happen sometimes. My clerks are not perfect.”

The man had become defensive the moment they showed him the record book with the page in question. He had denied knowing the name M. Guillame, sputtering about the vast number of Parisian business owners whose names resided in his books.

“An oversight,” Porthos repeated, his arms crossed on his chest, his eyes narrowed at the smaller man. He tilted his head toward Athos, an eyebrow raised in doubt. “That’s convenient.”

Colbert rose from his velvet chair and slammed the book closed. “I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Monsieur.” 

Porthos turned back to him and the man swallowed, visibly intimidated by the Musketeers size and demeanor.

“What we are insinuating,” Athos offered from his position beside his friend, “is that the record we seek is suspiciously incomplete. If you have no knowledge of how or why this has happened, I suppose we have no other recourse than to inform His Majesty of our findings and find some other way to identify this mysterious Monsieur Guillame.”

Colbert’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’m sure there is no need to involve His Majesty.” The man took a deep breath, regaining some of his superior air. “I shall make inquiries and relay the findings to your captain. If there is nothing else?” He looked at them down his nose – quite a feat considering Porthos stood nearly a foot taller – effectively dismissing them.

After a tense moment, Athos nodded. “We will await your response.”

The three Musketeers blinked in the bright sunshine of the late afternoon, more than happy to be free of the dank, oppressive archives.

“So that’s it?” d’Artagnan asked incredulously as they made their way back to their horses. “We just sit back and wait? Do you actually think Colbert will make an effort to find out who this man is?”

Athos sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “No, I don’t believe the Minister has any intention of aiding our investigation.”

“So what now?”

They reached the stables, each taking the reins of their mounts from the slat they had been tethered to. “Now, we return to check on Aramis and report to Treville. Perhaps he will have some insight into finding this man.”

“If he even exists,” Porthos huffed. 

Athos dipped his head in agreement. “Unless you have a better idea?”

Porthos paused, his eyes losing focus as he considered the question. “I could make some inquiries of my own.”

“You mean in the Court of Miracles,” d’Artagnan clarified.

Porthos shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to look for a thief.”

“You are not as welcome there as you once were, my friend. Or have you forgotten?” Athos reminded him.

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” the bigger man replied immediately. “Despite what happened between us, Flea and I have an understanding. If she knows anything about these thieves or our Monsieur Guillame, she’ll tell me.”

Athos pursed his lips, studying his friend for a beat, before tilting his chin at the sling that held his arm tight to his chest. “You are wounded, Porthos. I cannot condone putting you in danger.”

Porthos looked down with a jolt, as if just remembering he was indeed injured in yesterday’s blast. He pulled his arm free of the cloth, ducking his head out from the sling as he rolled his shoulder, testing the joint. “Hardly hurts at all,” he smiled. “Just don’t tell Aramis. We’ll never get him to listen to us about his own health if he knew I was doing this.”

Athos snorted a laugh before sobering, studying his friend’s face as he moved his arm. “Are you sure?” 

Porthos nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

Athos took a deep breath and released it through his nose before nodding his head in agreement. Though he was reticent to allow Porthos to risk himself under the circumstances, he agreed the man’s contacts within the court were an asset they would be foolish to ignore, and he knew the Musketeer was quite adept at taking care of his own hide. “We will return to the garrison and report to Treville. Be careful, Porthos. I would not relish having to explain your disappearance to Aramis considering the strain he is already under.”

Porthos’ face softened at the mention of their wounded comrade. “Tell ‘im I’ll be back by supper. I still have some friends inside the Court. No need for worry.”

Athos nodded and mounted his horse, noting d’Artagnan quietly following his lead. 

“Be careful, Porthos,” the younger man cautioned. “We’ll keep some stew warm for you.”

“You do that.” Porthos watched them leave the stables before he mounted and turned his horse in the opposite direction.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“The Musketeers are getting too close.” Colbert paced his office, his eyes flicking from the book on the desktop to the man draped casually across the chair in front of the large wooden desk. “We must do something about them.”

The man, dark and swarthy, dressed in respectable but common clothes, rubbed a finger across the scar on his cheek.

“They know nothing,” he retorted flippantly. “They have nothing but a name – not even a real one at that. And, from what I’ve heard, the only one who saw me in that alley was seriously wounded, blinded in the blast. There’s nothing that can lead them back to us as long as you keep your head and do not act rashly.”

Colbert took a deep breath, unconvinced by the man’s confidence. “But you can be connected to the name Guillame, and if they find you, it could lead them straight back to me.”

Guillame shook his head. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

Colbert crossed the room in two steps, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing as he loomed over the seated man. “I am worrying about everything!” He took another breath, quickly regaining his composure. “This money is mine. That pompous fool, Louis, owes it to me and I will not have it put in jeopardy because of a Musketeer. Go, follow them. Make sure this ‘witness’ is of no consequence. I will have nothing and no one interfere with my plan to gain what is rightfully owed me.”

Guillame, surprised at the ferocity of his employer’s response, stood, nodding once in reply. “As you wish, Minister.” He moved for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob and turned back to the irate man. “And if the Musketeers seem more of a threat than we anticipated?”

Colbert raised his head, his eyes cold, calculating, dangerous. “Kill them.”

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Athos handed the reins of his horse to the stable boy, his eyes scanning the deck outside Treville’s office, surprised to see the Captain leaning against the rails, returning his stare. A slight tilt of the commander’s head refocused Athos’ attention on the lone figure, tucked back into the shade at the table below.

Aramis’ shoulders were bowed, his head down, the brim of his hat concealing the majority of his face, hiding his expression from anyone who gave him a passing glance. But Athos had practice reading the man, and it was apparent all was not well, which was of little surprise given his recent injuries. Shoulders hunched, back bent, Aramis drew himself in, attempting to make himself much smaller than he actually was. His hands rested, palm down, on the rough table before him, his arms rigid and his chest rose in a controlled rhythm as if he were forcing himself to breathe in and out at a regular pace. His entire appearance screamed anxiety, and Athos wondered what had changed in the time they’d been gone.

He sighed, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, squeezing to ease some of the tension that had crept into his own muscles.

“What’s wrong?” D’Artagnan stepped up beside him, and Athos didn’t need to see the younger man to know his gaze was locked onto the same sight. “You think he’s all right?”

“He made it this far on his own,” the swordsman shrugged. “Aramis may sometimes be foolish with his health, but he is rarely blatantly irresponsible. I doubt he would be out here if he was not truly fit to be.”

D’Artagnan nodded, accepting the response without comment.

With an answering nod to Treville, Athos slowly made his way across the courtyard to the table. He held a hand up to d’Artagnan as they neared, circling around to take a seat at Aramis’ side. 

“I thought you were going to rest.”

Aramis snorted a laugh, a small, tight thing that sounded painful. “It didn’t work out.”

“Obviously.” Aramis’ tone warranted caution and Athos’ eyes narrowed as he continued. “You are most certainly in need of it. Why don’t you allow me to help you –“

“No.” Aramis shook his head, adamant. “I can’t go back up there. I can’t…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought I could handle this. But…”

“Are you in pain?”

“Some,” he admitted reluctantly. “But that is not what keeps me awake.”

Athos nodded in understanding but kept quiet, waiting him out, knowing the marksman would say what he needed to say in his own time.

“It’s this,” Aramis finally continued, his voice low. He raised his head and waved a hand at the courtyard in front of them. “At first, it was wonderful to hear the familiar sounds, to let my mind see what my eyes could not, but then it became impossible to block it out. I couldn’t find balance. It just… became too much.” He tilted his head toward Athos. “I long for some semblance of peace, some quiet, just for a moment. I tried, but here, with everything that is going on, life continuing inside the garrison, I have been unable to attain it.”

Athos sighed, not knowing how to comfort his wounded friend. His thoughts raced, searching for something, anything that would give Aramis what he needed. “We could go to a church. You’ve found solace there before.”

Aramis nodded, a soft smile on his lips. “True. I thank you for remembering, but I’m afraid I am in no frame of mind to speak to God at the moment. My mind will not settle.” He brought his hand up to play with the bandage covering his eyes. “But I would ask a favor of you. I know it is easier for all if I remain here, but… I believe I could find what I need in the garden.”

Athos almost hit himself upside the head. Of course. The garden behind the little house on Rue de Vaugirand. 

Most of the men of the regiment resided at the garrison, simply because it was much more affordable and convenient than keeping an apartment within the city. But some, like himself, had opted to take up lodgings outside the garrison walls to have a place to retreat when the life of a soldier became too much to bear. 

Aramis’ small residence consisted of only two rooms; one a living space, the other a comfortable bedroom they had all found cause to use on occasion. He had come upon it by chance, roaming the streets while recovering from the horror that was Savoy, and he had found something he had badly needed – not within the walls of the house itself – but in the beautiful, secluded garden tucked behind.

The garden had since been lovingly maintained by an older couple to whom Aramis had given aid many years ago, and while he spent the majority of his nights at the garrison – when he wasn’t in the bed of a mistress – he always made a point to return to the garden when he needed sanctuary or to reorder his thoughts after a misfortune or heartbreak. The last time Athos remembered him retreating there had been after he had been forced to kill Marsac. He had desperately needed time to make sense of all that had happened, and Athos and Porthos had given him the night, waiting outside his door the next morning, ready to lend a shoulder if needed. Under the circumstances, the quiet, healing solace of the garden would be a balm to Aramis’ restless soul. Athos was chagrined he had not thought of taking his friend there sooner.

“I’m sorry, Aramis.”

“For what?” The confusion was apparent in the marksman’s voice.

“I should have recognized your need. Of course I will take you there immediately.”

Athos knew he had made the right decision when Aramis’ shoulders relaxed and tension drained from his rigid muscles.

“Thank you, my friend.”

Athos squeezed Aramis’ neck and raised his own head, looking across the courtyard to where d’Artagnan still stood, watching them attentively. He called to the lad, smiling as he eagerly jogged toward the table, his eyes filled with concern.

“Please inform Treville of what we learned from the Minister’s records,” he instructed as he stood. He leaned down to hook a hand under Aramis’ arm to steady the marksman as he rose. “Wait here for Porthos and inform him to meet us at Aramis’ house when he returns.”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan nodded, stepping back as the two older men walked past, Athos’ grip on the wounded man’s arm firm as he led him toward the garrison entrance. They had already stepped out onto the street before Athos words registered, causing the Gascon to frown in confusion. “Wait a minute… Aramis has a house?”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

Porthos considered removing his pauldron as he approached the unmarked border of the Court of Miracles, knowing it would help him blend in a bit easier despite his size and bearing. His face was not unknown inside the Court, having been one of the leaders before he had left for the promise of a better life. He’d once been a man the denizens of this Paris slum looked up to, held in revere, but was now a man they despised. A Musketeer uniform was habitually met with disdain by the people he’d once felt a kind of kinship with, and he couldn’t imagine them seeing him as one of them anymore, especially since the death of their appointed king.

Charon had betrayed them; in league with the Cardinal to destroy what had stood for decades, but they would not see it as such. All they would remember is that Charon was one of them and he had been killed by a Musketeer. The fact that it had not been Porthos who had struck the fatal blow was of little importance; he was seen as the instrument of Charon’s demise, and he had little desire to have the true facts known.

Flea could have made the case for him, but he doubted she had. From everything he had gathered from the few friends he still had here, she had taken over, keeping the Court alive as their new Queen. He had no doubt she would do a better job than Charon. Her allegiance could not be bought, her desire to protect the people loyal to her and the Court unshakable. Flea had known the truth, seen what Charon had become, but she had protected his memory, knowing it would serve nothing to have the people know they had been betrayed so deliberately by the man they held in the highest regard. She had allowed them to think he had been on their side, using their anger to keep the Cardinal’s men from implementing his plan to destroy them, saving the Court from his hands despite his carefully construed strategy.

Porthos had agreed to keep quiet about it all. It would do no one any good to know the truth. It had been Aramis who had actually ended Charon’s life, reacting without thought to the threat against Porthos. He did not relish the thought of the men and women of the Court knowing it was his friend who had committed the act they considered so reprehensible. He would rather let them believe Charon had died at his hand, the fact they had history would keep anyone from seeking retaliation despite their anger.

He noticed the looks he received as he strode down the busy street, whispers and hostile glares following him, but none deigning to arrest his path. He was deep inside the court before two men stepped forward to confront him, daggers held at their sides, eyes narrowed in challenge.

“Your kind is not welcome here, Musketeer,” one of them sneered.

Porthos stopped, looking each of them in the eye, smiling as they flinched at his confidence.

“You know who I am?”

The shorter of the two nodded. “Porthos.”

“I’m here to see Flea. I only want to talk to her. Leave me be and there’ll be no problem.”

“We ain’t lettin’ you anywhere near her,” the man snorted a laugh. “Not after what you did.”

Porthos sighed, his fist clenching, his stance shifting in readiness. “Remember I gave you a chance.”

The two men attacked as one. Porthos ducked the shorter man’s dagger, twisting and swinging a gloved fist at the other. The man went down in a spray of blood as Porthos’ blow connected with his nose. Shock registered on his face just before his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, leaving the shorter one to face the Musketeer alone. Porthos smiled and rolled his sore shoulder, growling as his attacker stumbled back, his eyes wide.

“Enough!”

All three men turned to see the petite blonde woman standing at the open door of a nearby building, arms crossed on her chest, hip jutting out in annoyance.

“Stand down, Degaré,” Flea ordered, her eyes locked onto Porthos. “See to Alain.”

Without a word, the young man helped his friend to his feet and with a last glare at the Musketeer, limped down the street, disappearing around a corner.

Flea sauntered toward him and he smiled despite himself, his body releasing its tension, reacting to her as he always had. She stopped an arm’s length away, her unique musky scent flowing over him, reminding him of what they’d once shared.

“I heard there was a Musketeer roaming our streets like he belonged,” she said, unable to hide her own smile. “Thought I’d come see for myself who was stupid enough to wander into the Court.”

“I was looking for you.”

“Hmmm. A social visit perhaps? No?” She reached a graceful hand up, lightly brushing her fingers over the scrapes on his cheek, her gaze never breaking from his. “Or maybe something of a bit more consequence.”

“I need your help.” He held her eyes, searching for the affection he believed she still held, but her face remained passive, revealing nothing. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her warm skin. “I hope you are still inclined favorably.”

Flea tilted her head, one side of her mouth turning up as she shifted her gaze to his lips. “Perhaps I am,” she admitted. “But perhaps it would be in my best interest if I were not.” She took a deep breath, reclaimed her hand and squared her shoulders as she made a show of looking him over, head to toe. “You seem… fit. Despite the cuts and scrapes. The life of a Musketeer suits you.”

Porthos nodded, feeling his heartbeat surge at her nearness. She crossed her arms, but remained close, narrowing her eyes as she returned his gaze. “I assume you’re looking for something or someone and thought because of our past relationship, I would fall at your feet and do whatever I could to give you what you need.”

Porthos huffed a laugh at her audacity. “Can’t blame a man for hopin’.”

“Is this favor you seek personal or professional?”

“Both,” Porthos hedged, wishing he had the time for something much more personal. “You heard of the royal caravan that was attacked?”

Flea’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Are you here to accuse someone within the Court?”

Porthos shook his head. “I’m here to ask if you’ve ever heard the name Guillame?”

The blonde woman frowned. “The name of your bandit, I presume?”

“We believe it’s the name of the man who tried to kill us.”

Her eyes widened, flickering again to the scrapes across his cheek before taking a step back and letting her gaze travel suggestively down his body. “Looks as if he did a poor job.”

“I was lucky. Aramis was not.”

Flea’s eyes snapped back to Porthos’ and she unconsciously leaned forward at the grief she saw there. “Porthos… I’m sorry. Is he…?”

The Musketeer shook his head and she sighed, relieved. “He’s alive, but he could be blind.” It was the first time he’d admitted his fear for his friend out loud, and he had to swallow back the dread that rose with the acknowledgement. “This man is dangerous. He rigged an alley with gunpowder and obviously didn’t care who he hurt. I need to find him.”

“To retrieve the King’s gold.”

“To teach him not to mess with Musketeers.”

Flea paused, then nodded, her understanding etched on her face. She took his hand, dropping her head and shifting her gaze to their entwined fingers. “Your love and loyalty to those you consider family is something I’ve always admired about you.”

“You were once my family.”

“I know.” She nodded, smiling sadly. “I regret our… friendship… can no longer be as it once was.”

“Because of Charon?”

“Because of Charon,” she admitted. “Because of what happened. There are people here that still believe you killed him.”

“I know. I appreciate you leaving it at that. Not bringing Aramis into it.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable with his gratitude. “Aramis saved your life. Because of that, I can’t condemn his actions. Despite what Charon had become, he belonged here, people looked up to him. His death has united us, given us a reason to fight, to resist the Cardinal’s attempts to push us out. I cannot risk them knowing Charon’s true crimes.”

The silence grew thick between them until Porthos reluctantly nodded. “Can you help me?”

“I do not know the man you seek, but I will do what I can to find him.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, knowing how hard it was for her to offer. 

“I will send word.” She lowered her eyes, for the first time unable to hold his. “Don’t come back here again, Porthos. I cannot assure your safety. I would be upset to hear anything had happened to you here.”

“I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.” Porthos pulled her close and allowed his forehead to drop to hers. They stood, motionless for a moment, each drinking in the moment as if it was their last. Finally he pulled back and ran the back of his fingers across her cheek. “If you ever need me, you know where I am.”

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Aramis tried to focus on the map he’d constructed in his head as Athos led him out of the garrison. He’d made the journey to his house on Rue de Vaugirand many times, usually alone, but sometimes accompanied by his friends, and he knew the way by heart. But without the use of his sight, he was desperately trying to maintain his sense of direction, finding the overload of sounds and smells disorienting. 

Despite Athos’ firm grip on his arm providing him comfort, he remained, his heart beating against his ribs. He sensed his friend was aware of his uneasiness as Athos’ body pressed in close, shielding him from the normal hustle of the Parisian streets.

“Aramis?”

Athos voice was low, merely a soft breath near his ear, but Aramis’ started as if he had shouted aloud.

Taking a deep breath, he quickly assured his friend. “I am fine. Just… a bit disoriented.”

Athos huffed his understanding and tightened his grip on Aramis’ arm. 

“The street is busy today,” Athos said as they moved along. “There are many vendors moving their wares toward the marketplace. I believe it’s the cool weather that is bringing the people out of their homes. Many women are carrying baskets, leading young children to the shops and carts already set up.”

Armamis smiled, recognizing what his friend was doing. As Athos continued his litany of observation, Aramis allowed the words wash over him, a picture forming in his mind of what was before them. He inhaled the baked goods coming from the shop as Athos described the two young women who had just stepped from the bakery, their baskets covered but filled with pastries and breads. The jingle of a harness beat in time with the clomp of a horse’s hooves against the cobblestones as a carriage rolled past – green with red trim according to his narrator’s description. Under the bandage, the scene sprang to life, the previous chaos of the sound and scent melding into umages easily understood, telling a story instead of overpowering his senses.

A scream rent the air and the Musketeers stopped, each turning a different way, trying to determine the direction it had come from. Another scream, high pitched and filled with fear, assaulted their ears and Athos pushed him back toward the side of a stone building, out of the direct line of traffic of the busy street.

“Go.” Aramis sensed his friend’s hesitation and latched onto the hand that still gripped his arm. “I will remain here, I promise. You must go.”

Athos breathed once through his nose, his hand tightening, almost bruisingly so on his arm. “I can’t leave you here unprotected.”

“I may be blind, but I am still a Musketeer,” Aramis assured him. “I can handle myself for the moment. Go.”

With another squeeze to his arm, Athos moved away and Aramis suddenly felt adrift. The sounds and smells once more assaulted his senses and he pressed himself back into the cool stone, his hand on the dagger secured at his back. He kept his head down, hiding the bandages from anyone who deigned to give him notice, praying he would remain inconspicuous until his friend returned.

Unfortunately, his prayers went unanswered. 

“Do you need assistance, Monsieur?” A male voice asked just to the right of him.

Aramis shook his head, tugging the brim of his hat lower. “No, thank you. I am just awaiting the return of my comrade.”

There was something familiar about the man’s voice, but with the sudden influx of stimulation to his senses, he could not think clearly, only knowing he must remain where he was until Athos returned.

“Perhaps I could lead you to a place more secure?” The man stepped closer and Aramis felt a hand on his arm. He drew the dagger from its guard and held it out as he stepped away, keeping his back to the wall.

“Perhaps you should leave, Monsieur. I have no wish to do you harm.”

The man laughed, sparking recognition in Aramis mind.

“You…”

“Aramis!”

He turned his head in the direction of Athos’ voice, relief making him dizzy as the sounds of his friend’s quick steps approached.

“Aramis? Are you all right?”

Aramis swallowed thickly and nodded, allowing Athos to remove the drawn dagger from his shaking grip. “The scream?”

“I could find no one.” Athos paused, stepping closer as Aramis swayed against the stone wall. “Who was that man?”

“I believe that was our thief.”

He didn’t need to see Athos’ face to recognize the surprise his comment must have wrought.

“How do you know?”

“His laugh. It was the same contemptible sound I heard right before the explosion.”

“We must get you off the streets. Aramis, we should return to the garrison.”

Aramis tensed. He knew Athos was right, it would be safer at the garrison under the watchful eyes of Treville and the other Musketeers, but his need for solitude – for a single moment of peace – was almost tangible and he knew if he were to move beyond his injuries and accept what could possibly lie ahead, he would not be able to do so there. “I understand your desire to protect me, mon ami, but please. I will be safe in the garden. Few know the house is owned by a Musketeer. And with you, Porthos and d’Artagnan there to watch over me, I am as safe as if I was in the Louvre itself.”

“You seem to be forgetting the many disasters that have befallen us inside the palace,” Athos reminded him. Despite his cautious tone, Aramis knew he’d already conceded to his wishes. “Very well. I have instructed d’Artagnan to have Porthos meet us there when he returns. You shall have your moment of peace, Aramis.”

Aramis smiled, the cacophony around him no longer quite so cloistering. He held out his hand and Athos wordlessly returned the dagger. He replaced it in its sheath and allowed Athos to take his arm once again, hurrying him down the street.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Guillame stepped back into the shadow of the alley, watching as the two Musketeers hastily made their way around the corner to Rue de Vaugirand. Following, he stopped as soon as he rounded the house on the end, leaning casually against the brick as they crossed the road and entered a small stone dwelling about halfway down the street.

He was sure the blind Musketeer had recognized his voice. Colbert was right – he would have to be dealt with. The thought of killing a Musketeer – even one who could barely fight back – sent a thrill down his spine and he smiled, eager to accomplish his task. Unfortunately the Musketeer was not alone, and Guillame was no fool. Taking on two of them alone was not a wise move. No, he would wait; choose his opportunity carefully. He was sure it would come, and he would be ready when it presented itself.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos dismounted, noticing d’Artagnan sitting on the bottom step of the staircase leading to Treville’s office. He waved off the stable boy and tied the reins to a post just inside the archway, looking up in time to see the younger Musketeer hurrying toward him. The look on the Gascon’s face made him pause, and he quickly scanned the courtyard, seeing no sign of Aramis or Athos.

“Is Aramis all right?” he asked before d’Artagnan could open his mouth.

The younger man nodded. “He’s fine.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Well, as fine as he could be considering. Athos took him to his house.”

Porthos sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “The garden,” he nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Should’ve thought of that before. Aramis has always found peace in that garden.”

The young Musketeer unwound the reins of Porthos’ mount and started toward the stable, handing the horse off to the stable boy before turning back to the older man. “That’s what Athos said. Did you learn anything from Flea?”

“She didn’t know the name Guillame, but she promised to look around. She said she’d contact me if she found anythin’.”

“I’ve already informed the Captain where we’ll be.” D’Artagnan motioned toward the gate. “Athos said to join them as soon as you returned.”

Porthos grinned as he noticed the young man’s eagerness. “I doubt a few more minutes will hurt. What’s got you so restless?”

D’Artagnan stopped, turning back to him wide eyed. “Nothing. I just… well Athos said…”

Porthos huffed another laugh and crossed his arms over his broad chest. He raised a brow and looked at the smaller man expectantly.

“Aramis has a house,” d’Artagnan finally admitted. “And I’m… curious.”

“Curious to see what kind of a house someone like Aramis would own?”

d’Artagnan shrugged. “Something like that.”

“What are you expecting?” Porthos asked, amused. D’Artagnan hadn’t known them all that long, and he had to admit Aramis was probably the most secretive of the three of them. He let people see what he wanted them to see, his reputation for womanizing and his gregarious nature a mask to keep his true self hidden. From the look on the lad’s face, it was fairly obvious d’Artagnan was expecting to find some type of lavish debauchery, in keeping with Aramis’ façade. 

D’Artagnan blushed and Porthos’ grin widened. 

“I don’t know what to expect, I’m just…”

“Curious,” Porthos finished for him.

“Yes.”

Porthos laughed and slapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Well then let’s move out before your curiosity gets the better of you.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos stepped back, allowing his friend to guide himself through the small house. The main room was narrow, less than fifteen paces from front to back with little furniture to bar the way to a wooden door leading to the garden out back. Aramis was more hesitant the usual, but he found his way, fumbling for the handle on the door before pulling it open and stepping outside. He paused on the threshold and breathed deeply, allowing the scent of the thriving plants and trees to settle him.

The garden less symmetrical, less manicured than the French gardens found near the Louvre and in the heart of the city, but it was more carefree, more relaxed, a collection of flowering bushes and vines that climbed the stone walls and gave a pleasant aroma of earthy comfort. Two small chestnut trees adorned the center of the courtyard, a moss-covered marble bench nestled below. 

Aramis stepped out onto the narrow stone path, following it unerringly to the bench. He lowered himself with a sigh, leaning back against the dark bark of the tree, his shoulders losing most of the tension as the familiar sounds and smells began to blanket his senses.

Athos followed his friend, taking a seat on the other end of the bench and watching him carefully.

“Better?”

Aramis smiled, rolling his head along the bark, following Athos voice. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m just sorry I did not think of it sooner.”

They sat for a few moments, until Aramis soft voice broke the silence.

“I’m afraid.”

Athos swallowed, unsure how to respond. “Of Guillame?” He knew full well the bandit was not the center of his friend’s trepidation, but dared not offer comfort until the marksman said the words aloud.

Aramis shook his head. “No. I have no fear you, Porthos and d’Artagnan will be able to apprehend Guillame before he can do more harm.”

Athos nodded, his friend’s faith in their abilities warming him. “Then you have nothing to fear.”

Aramis hesitated, and Athos wished for the ability to read the Spaniards dark, expressive eyes. 

“What is to become of me? A blind marksman is hardly worthy of the King’s trust.”

“Don’t, Aramis… your eyes –“

“Will heal,” Aramis interrupted, his voice strained. “Yes, so you’ve said. But I can’t help but consider what may happen if they don’t.”

Athos sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He didn’t want to contemplate the prospect of Aramis’ sight being permanently damaged, but he couldn’t deny the possibility. “Even if you do not recover fully, there will always be a place for you. You know that. Porthos and I will never abandon you.” 

“I harbor no doubt of your loyalty, dear Athos. I simply wonder what I could contribute if this darkness becomes permanent. I fear it would be more than I could bear.”

“You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, my friend.” Athos huffed a laugh. “Besides, I have always likened you to a cat –able to land on your feet no matter the height from which you fall.”

The analogy brought a grin to the marksman’s lips. “A cat?” He snorted a laugh. “I do tend to purr when the situation warrants – usually when a beautiful woman is involved.”

“That is more information that I find comfortable receiving.”

“Apologies, my friend.” Aramis’ smile widened at the older man’s feigned discomfort. “I shall endeavor to keep such knowledge to myself.”

The sun began to set, the warmth giving way to the cooler night air, and Aramis settled himself back against the tree, sinking into the comfort of the garden. 

 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

It was a short walk to the Rue de Vaugirand, and d’Artagnan kept silent as he contemplated the chance to learn something more about one of his friends. The revelation of Athos’ past had been revealing, and Porthos had no problem admitting where he’d come from, but Aramis’ life before becoming a Musketeer was still a mystery. He was obviously religious, the cross around his neck and his faithful attention to prayer and church attesting to that, but those practices were contrary to his love of a fight and his flirtatious charm. He was the one member of the Inseparables that d’Artagnan had truly failed to figure out, and the anticipation of learning something about the man – even something the other Musketeers already knew – intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

A deep rumble from Porthos brought him from his musings and he threw the man a look of annoyance.

“Out with it, whelp, before you hurt something in that head o’ yours.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the big man’s chuckle, but he was thankful for the invitation to voice his questions.

“How does a Musketeer own a house?” He shook his head. “I can understand Athos being able to afford such a luxury seeing as how he is a comte, but Aramis? Does he come from wealth?”

Porthos shook his head. “Nah, Aramis’ family ran a distillery. There’s nothing for him to inherit.”

D’Artagnan continued to press. “So how can he afford to own property – in Paris of all places – on a Musketeer’s pay? Are those rich widows he visits really so generous?”

Porthos chuckled again, but his mirth quickly sobered. “It was back when he was still healin’ from what happened in Savoy,” he began. D’Artagnan’s heart did a flip, remembering the look on Aramis’ face when he’d explained about the massacre all those months ago. “His body was healin’ but his mind… it wasn’t so quick to mend. He’d taken to roamin’ the streets for hours at a time, tryin’ to get his head around all that’d happened. That’s when he ran across this little house. There was some kind of disturbance goin’ on, and being a Musketeer, he stepped in. The owners of the house were grateful and were lookin’ to sell.”

D’Artagnan kept pace with the bigger man, but didn’t interrupt his story.

“Aramis agreed to take a look, knowing full well he didn’t have the coin to afford such a place, but the moment he stepped into the garden behind the house, he said he felt a wave of peace come over him like he’d never experienced before. It was like a piece of heaven had been made available to him.” Porthos smiled at the memory, glancing to his side to see d’Artagnan grinning in return.

“I’m sure that meant a lot to him.”

Porthos nodded. “It did. He could barely bring himself to leave, but he knew he couldn’t afford to buy it. When he returned to the garrison, the Captain noticed he was different, a bit more at ease and inquired. Aramis told him of the garden and Treville offered to loan him the funds to buy it.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help his grunt of surprise. “Treville?”

Porthos shrugged. “The Captain has done well for himself. It was an offer Aramis didn’t want to look to carefully at, and one he couldn’t refuse.”

D’Artagnan pursed his lips, quickly understanding why the Captain had felt the need to reach out to help the sole survivor of the massacre. “And Aramis never asked why?”

“He wondered, but didn’t really care at the time. He needed that garden. To this day I believe it was that place that saved him from himself.”

“Sounds amazing,” d’Artagnan smiled. “I’m eager to see it.”

Porthos slapped a hand on his shoulder and nodded toward a wooden door adorning a small stone house a few paces away. “That’s good, because we’re here.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The interior of the house was dark, curtains pulled across the windows, blocking the waning sunlight of the day. The main room was clean and tidy, a table with four chairs at the center, a comfortable looking settee against the far wall. There were two partially opened doorways, one to the side, leading to another darkened room, the other directly opposite the entrance, soft light spilling through the narrow opening. It was quiet inside, no sign of either of the two missing Musketeers and Porthos moved swiftly to the door at the back of the room, stepping down onto the pebbles that surrounded the garden.

D’Artagnan stepped down beside him, a low whistle accompanying his wide-eyed stare. “I can see why Aramis fell in love with this place.”

The garden wasn’t much bigger than the house itself, but it was filled with well-kept trees, vines and flowers that made it seem much bigger than it was. High stone walls, awash with colorfully flowering vines blocked out the outside world, leaving a hushed sense of calm over the garden. 

In the center, nestled under a modest chestnut tree, sat their two friends. Athos was leaning against the tree’s trunk on the far side of a moss-covered bench, his feet crossed at the ankles, his eyes scanning the leather bound book he held in his lap. On the other end of the bench, Aramis sat slumped against a smaller tree, obviously asleep, his hat pulled low over the bandages, a blanket draped across his chest.

Athos eyes rose to greet the new arrivals and he held a finger to his lips as he closed the book and rose to meet them.

“How long as he been like that?” Porthos inquired, his voice low in deference to their wounded friend.

“A while,” Athos responded. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it further up across the sleeping man’s chest before turning and motioning them to join him inside the house.

When he stepped inside, it was to Porthos’ chuckle as the big man watched d’Artagnan take in the surroundings. 

“Not exactly what you were expectin’, eh?”

d’Artagnan smiled. “It’s nice. Small but well kept.” He shook his head. “But no, I guess I expected something a bit more…”

“Aramis?” Athos finished for him. 

“Exactly.”

“The moment you think you’ve got ‘im figured out, he’ll throw ya for a loop.”

D’Artagnan laughed at Porthos’ assessment. “Apparently.” He nodded his head toward the garden and its sleeping occupant. “It obviously works. I can’t deny that.”

Athos placed the book on the table and went to the cupboard, pulling three cups and a dusty jug of wine. AS the three settled into the chairs surrounding the tables, Porthos briefly informed him of his visit to the Court and Flea’s promise to look into the name of their mysterious warehouse owner.

“The Captain knows where we are,” he concluded. “I’m sure he’ll send a messenger if there is any word.”

Athos nodded, taking a small sip of the wine. “We may have a more pressing problem, I’m afraid.”

Porthos growled low in his throat as he told them of Aramis’ encounter with the man from the alley.

“He’s sure?” d’Artagnan asked. “I mean, it’s not as if Aramis could see him. Perhaps he made a mistake.” 

Athos shook his head. “He seemed quite convinced. He said it was the same laugh he heard before the explosion. Aramis would not make such a claim lightly. I, for one, am inclined to believe him.”

“As am I,” Porthos agreed. “Do you think he followed you here?”

Athos took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he considered the question. “Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone, but I suppose it is possible.”

“You should’ve gone back to the garrison,” Porthos argued, his protective instinct towards his friend manifesting in an accusation. “He’d be safer there.”

“I agree,” Athos nodded. “But it is obvious Aramis needed the peace this place gives him more than he needed to feel secure. I doubt Guillame – if that is indeed the man’s name – would try anything while Aramis is under our protection.”

Porthos rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I suppose you’re right. But as soon as he wakes up –“

“I’m awake.”

All three heads turned to see Aramis leaning in through the open doorway from the garden. They couldn’t help but notice how relaxed the marksman looked, moving unerringly through the room toward where they sat at the table. His good hand was slightly in front of him, and Porthos stood, taking it and guiding him to the empty chair he’d just vacated. Once Aramis was safely seated, he moved around to the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.

“You look better.”

Aramis inclined his head at Athos’ assessment. “I feel much better. Thank you for allowing me this reprieve.”

Athos shared a glance with Porthos, who grinned apologetically for his earlier anger. 

“You are more than welcome,” Athos responded. “But Porthos is right. It is not safe for you here.”

Aramis swallowed, tilting his head as he considered his friend’s words. “I understand your concern, but I implore you to allow me this concession. If I could spend just one night here in this sanctuary, I believe I could handle whatever is to come. I know it would be a burden upon the rest of you, but as long as one of you is here, I’m confident this Guillame would not be so brash as to attack.”

“Unless he’s not working alone,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “Remember, the drivers and guards of the caravan said there were at least five men.”

“Five men who are faceless and nameless and have little to fear from us,” Aramis countered. “It is only this Guillame who is known, and even he can’t be frightened of being identified by a blind man.”

“Temporarily blind man,” Porthos reminded him.

Aramis smiled. “Temporarily,” he amended.

“Except you’ve already identified him,” Athos reminded him. “I’m afraid we cannot place you in such a position of risk, my friend.”

Aramis sighed, but nodded, conceding to his friend’s wishes.

A knock at the door brought a halt to the conversation. Porthos rose and crossed the room in a few steps, cautiously opening the door to find Jacques, the garrison stable boy shifting from one foot to the other outside. The big man swiftly reached out and pulled the boy inside, taking a careful look up and down the darkening street before closing the door and returning his attention to the room.

“The Captain sent me with a message for Porthos,” Jacques quickly explained. He held out a folded piece of parchment toward the big Musketeer. “He said it was of the upmost importance.”

Porthos grinned at the boy’s wording as he accepted the note. He quickly scanned it before holding it up triumphantly. “Flea found something. She wants to meet.”

“Take d’Artagnan with you,” Athos instructed. “None of us should be alone.”

“But what about Guillame?” d’Artagnan spoke up. “It is possible he followed you. What if he knows where Aramis lives now?”

It was the marksman who answered. “Fear not, d’Artagnan. Athos is right. It is unfair of me to stay here when it places us all at risk. We will return to the garrison presently.”

The man’s disappointment was not lost on the others. “Maybe it would be wiser to wait until we return?” Porthos offered. “It’ll be dark before you could make it back. I’d feel better if the two of you weren’t out roamin’ the streets alone.”

Athos considered the request, taking a deep breath and nodding his agreement. “We will remain here, but be swift. I do not feel secure knowing this man has approached Aramis once already.”

D’Artagnan stood and joined Porthos and Jacques near the door. “Jacques can alert the Captain to our plan.” He turned to look at the boy. “If we have not returned to the garrison in an hour, tell him to send some men as escort.”

Jacques nodded eagerly and took off out the door like a shot.

“Remain diligent,” Athos warned. He pushed himself from the table and moved around to grasp his friends’ arms. “We shall await your return.”

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The tavern was busy, enough men finding their way in just after dark to make moving about cumbersome. Being taller than average was both a blessing and a curse d’Artagnan mused; it was easier to search for their contact, but made them and their uniforms more visible as well. He ignored the looks of fear and unease thrown their way, feeling exposed, but proud of the effect their pauldrons had on the rabble. He shook his head, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth – if he felt this exposed, he could only imagine how Porthos felt.

The bigger man used his size to his advantage, peering out over the patrons even as he pushed his way through them. What little resistance they caught evaporated once the men in question caught a look at the big Musketeer making his way through the throng of revelers, and d’Artagnan was more than amenable to follow in his wake.

Porthos led them to a table in the furthest corner of the tavern. A cloak-draped figure sat on the far side of a scarred wooden table, large brimmed hat pulled low over his face. Another man, fidgeting nervously, sat beside him, watching the approaching Musketeer with wide, anxious eyes. Porthos didn’t wait for an invitation, settling down on the chair to the cloaked figure’s right, leaving d’Artagnan to take the last seat, his back to the room.

As the Gascon turned the chair to straddle it, angling himself so he could watch the crowd from the corner of his eye, Porthos reached for the cloaked figure’s hand and brought it to his lips.

“You’re lookin’ quite fetchin’ tonite,” he said with a grin.

Delicate fingers pushed the brim of the hat up and d’Artagnan did a double take as Flea’s feminine face was revealed.

“Flattery will get you nothin’” she teased, returning the grin. “But, since I’ve already gone to all the trouble of honoring your request, I’ll take the compliment.” She tilted her head to the nervous man sitting beside her. “This is Marchand. He has some information on your thief I thought you might like to hear.”

D’Artagnan studied the man, taking in the sweat across his upper lip and the way his hands clutched nervously at the collar of his shirt.

“You know the man we’re looking for?” Porthos wasted no time getting down to business. “Guillame? You’ve heard the name?”

Marchand nodded quickly. “It is not his true name, but yes, I know of him.”

“How?”

Marchand’s eyes flicked nervously toward d’Artagnan.

“I… was employed – briefly – by him not long ago.”

Porthos placed both arms on the table and leaned forward, menacing. “And just how long ago would that’ve been?”

Marchand cleared his throat, glancing to Flea who nodded encouragingly. “Go on, Marchand. I give you my word you can trust them.” She shot a meaningful look at Porthos, who nodded and backed off.

“I… I was there when the King’s caravan was attacked.”

D’Artagnan’s arm shot out, grabbing on to Marchand’s in a brutal hold. “You were one of the bandits? A man was killed!”

“Easy, lad,” Porthos stretched a hand out, pulling d’Artagnan’s arm back and easing him away from the desperate man across the table.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was being hired to do.” Marchand was adamant, pleading for them to understand. ”I was desperate, needed to feed my family. I swear I had no idea they intended to hurt anyone. Please, you must believe me.”

Flea shifted closer and put a hand on Marchand’s arm. “It’s all right. We understand. Just tell them what happened.”

Marchand took a deep breath and swallowed, closing his eyes against the fear he felt under the accusing stares of the two Musketeers.

“I was here,” he waved a hand toward the room, “one night a few weeks ago. A man calling himself Guillame was buying drinks, saying he had an opportunity for anyone who was good with a pistol or sword.” Marchand shook his head. “I’m a peaceful man, but… my wife, my sons, they were starving. There is no work to be had in the city. I… I was told there would be no violence, that the gold would be given up without a fight, that we would have no use for force, but…”

“The guard resisted,” Porthos finished for him.

Archand nodded, distressed. “It was Guillame himself who fired the shot. Myself, the others, we could do nothing to stop it. After that, we collected the bags and ran.”

“This Guillame,” d’Artagnan had managed to temper his initial anger and kept his voice calm and steady. “Do you know where we can find him?”

Marchand shook his head. “This is the only place I’ve seen him, but he has not shown his face here since that day.” He placed a small coin purse before the young Musketeer. “This is what I was paid for my part. I cannot accept blood money. I am not a bad man, merely a desperate one.”

D’Artagnan picked up the purse and opened it, letting the few meager coins inside drop onto the palm of his hand. “This is everything?”

Marchand nodded, his eyes flicking from the four gold coins to the younger man’s eyes. “It is all I have, Monsieur. Please, take it, return it to where it belongs. I would rather starve than bow to whomever monsieur Guillame serves.”

“Serves?” Porthos picked up on the word. “You don’t believe Guillame was behind this? You think he was working for someone else?”

Marchand looked helplessly to Flea, who patted his hand and took up the explanation. “Whoever Guillame is working for must be pretty high up. Nobody will talk.” She glanced at the defeated man beside her. “Marchand has told you all he knows. I promised him you would be fair when dealing with him. He cannot take care of his family from within the Bastille.”

She locked eyes with Porthos, challenging him to dispute her statement.

After a moment, Porthos dipped his head in agreement. Reaching across the table, he gathered the coins and pushed them back toward Marchand. “Feed your family.”

Marchand’s eyes widened and he looked from Porthos to d’Artagnan with wonder. “I cannot… this money is stolen!” His voice was hushed, as if trying to keep the rest of the patrons of the tavern from learning of his indiscretion.

“Please,” d’Artagnan tossed the empty coin purse on the table next to the coins. “I think the King can afford to reward you for your honesty.”

“But –“

“Take it and go,” Flea picked up the coins and dropped them into the purse, pulling the cord closed and pressing it into his hands. She stood, pulling Marchand up with her and gave him a push toward the door. “Go,” she repeated. “And give thanks it was these Musketeers who heard your confession and not the Cardinal’s Red Guard.”

Marchand nodded gratefully. “Thank you, messieurs, thank you.” He scuttled out of the tavern without a look back.

Porthos sighed as he stood, motioning for d’Artagnan to give him a moment alone. As soon as the Gascon had disappeared into the crowd, he turned to Flea, a scowl on his face.

“I don’t appreciate bein’ set-up.”

Flea shrugged and took a step closer. “Sometimes you have to pay for information, Porthos. You know this. Besides,” she looked up at him, a knowing grin on her face. “Marchand is not the man you want.”

Porthos snorted a laugh and shook his head. “No, he’s not. And we’re no closer to finding Guillame than we were before.”

She tilted her head in concession. “At least you know he answers to someone else.”

“True.” He reached around her and pulled her close to him, tipping her hat back with a finger as he smiled down at her. “You’ll let me know if you hear anythin’ else.”

“I’ll consider it.”

He ran his finger down her cheek, his eyes following, taking in the creamy whiteness of her skin. A raucous laugh went up across the room reminding him they were not alone. With another sigh, he reluctantly released her and stepped back. With a tip of his own hat, he turned and followed d’Artagnan from the tavern.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“What good is a candlestick without a candle?” Athos grumbled as fumbling sounds emanated from the small pantry behind the table. Aramis tried to suppress his smile at his friend’s discontent, realizing the sun must have set, blanketing the house in darkness. “Do your caretakers realize this place is mostly used at night?”

“Of course they do,” Aramis responded, amusement growing at the frustration in Athos’ disgruntled voice. “They also realize, quite astutely, that the need for illumination in the main room is not the primary concern.”

Since he’d heard no thumps or outright cursing, he assumed there was still enough light for Athos to make his way around without bumping into the furniture, but Aramis knew the scant moonlight allowed past the thick curtains could not be enough to help in his friend’s search. Athos huffed and stomped away into the small bedroom, and Aramis permitted a small huff of laughter to escape his tight rein. A huff of inignation preceded Athos’ return alerting the marksman his mirth at the situation was was not shared. 

“I guess there is one advantage to my situation.” Aramis quipped.

“Perhaps,” Athos agreed as the sound of a flint striking wafted across the room. “But under the circumstances –“

The report of a pistol firing from just outside the house silenced the former comte’s words. A loud crash reverberated through the small room and Aramis heard a grunt followed by a thump, the chillingly recognizable sound of a human body hitting the floor. He instantly threw himself from the chair, crouching low on his hands and knees, his head moving, listening for any signs of life, inside or out.

“Athos!” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. “Athos!”

He received no answer and cautiously moved in the direction he knew his friend had been standing, his hands patting the floor in front and to the sides of him, hoping to make contact with the swordsman. It was only a few moments before his searching hand met with the warm smoothness of Athos’ leather covered leg. Quickly sliding across the floor, he felt his way further up, finding his friend’s shoulders and latching on.

“Athos!” He shook the unresponsive man, noting the coppery tang of blood in the air. He moved a hand, feeling along Athos’ chest and arms, up his neck, across his face until he felt warm wet blood in his hair, along the side of his head. “No, no. no…” Aramis mumbled as he concentrated on his sense of touch, letting his fingers drift across the shallow furrow, trying to assess the wound.

Of course, any head wound was serious – especially one caused by a bullet – but Aramis knew head wounds tended to bleed quite a bit and did not panic at the amount of the slick substance he felt oozing through his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the injury, his vast experience in treating musket and battlefield wounds flowing through his mind.

The shallow gash rent the skin, but not deep enough to shatter bone. Even though Athos remained stubbornly unconscious, Aramis was convinced there was little chance of permanent damage and he would awaken with a vicious headache, but no further impairment. He removed the sash from around his waist and hastily tied it around his friends head, taking a moment to assure himself the gash was covered, but Athos’ eyes would not be obstructed when he regain consciousness. 

Once done, relief rushed through him, making him weak, and he sat back on his hip, his hand dropping to Athos chest, patting the leather reassuringly. 

His reprieve was short lived as the door to the small house was kicked open, the heavy wood smashing against the wall with a loud clatter. Aramis pushed to his feet, and turned toward the sound, stepping forward to place himself between the intruder and his vulnerable friend.

The man at the door laughed and Aramis scowled, recognizing the voice immediately.

“Looks as if I hit the wrong target.” Footsteps moved into the room and Aramis heard the door being pushed shut. “But what could you expect,” Guillame continued. “It being so dark and all. Maybe we should light that candle?”

Aramis growled, surprising himself at his response to the threat to him and his friend. “I believe the lack of illumination puts us on equal footing.”

Guillame laughed again, a sound that played on Aramis’ nerves.

“It certainly will make killing you more interesting,” the bandit admitted as he advanced. “But do not believe for a moment it will help you.”

“We shall see.” Knowing the layout of the room, Aramis circled around Athos’ inert form, hoping to keep Guillame from attempting to further injure the unconscious man. He was under no delusion that Athos would miraculously wake up and assist in apprehending Guillame. While the wound was not as serious as it could’ve been, it was still something that would render the swordsman insensate for a time at best. 

He contemplated leading Guillame out the back door, into the garden, but without weapons, he could determine no advantage other than keeping the bandit away from Athos. Unfortunately, the door lay on the opposite side of his friend and to move toward it would mean exposing Athos to Guillame’s wrath. Instead, he began to move back toward the table, listening as the bandit shifted with him, relieved the man was more focused on him than using his friend against him. As soon as his searching hand closed around the caned back of one of the chairs, , Aramis hefted it and swung it directly into what he prayed was Guillame’s path. A grunt of pain and the clatter of heavy metal against the floor brought a smile to his face, knowing he had surprised the man, causing him to stumble and drop the pistol he had no doubt reloaded after firing through the window. He circled around the table, drawing Guillame further away from Athos, the heavy wood between him and his opponent.

He jumped back as he sensed an arm coming toward him, Guillame’s fingers grasping at him, but unable to find purchase. 

“You’re only postponing the inevitable, Musketeer. You can’t evade me for long, and when I’m done with you, I’ll take care of your friend.”

So keeping him away from Athos was a temporary measure at best, but Aramis was determined to protect his friend as long as possible. If he could keep Guillame focused on him long enough – and keep himself alive – there was a chance Porthos and d’Artagnan could return to lend a much needed hand. The odds were not in his favor, but if he’d learned anything from Porthos over the years, it was sometimes it was possible to beat the odds no matter how high they were stacked against you.

“You over estimate your chances, Monsieur.” Aramis taunted, trying to sound much more confident than he felt. He tilted his head, allowing his hearing to focus on the movements of the bandit, shuffling his feet as he sensed him moving around the table.

The bandit laughed. Aramis could hear his steps slide around the table, cringing at the crack of the chairs being overturned one by one as they hampered his progress.

As Aramis rounded another corner, Guillame moved swiftly, pressing the table forward, knocking Aramis back onto the setté against the far wall. He was on him immediately, pressing him down, a hand around his throat as Aramis fought for position, trying to gain enough leverage to throw the man off. Able to get a leg wedged up in between them, he pushed with all his strength, sending Guillame backwards to land on the floor with a thump. Coughing, Aramis surged from the setté and took a few stumbling steps, only to have his ankle grabbed and yanked back viciously, sending him face first into the floor. 

He rolled instinctively, feeling Guillame’s boot graze his side. He reached out, closing his hand around the man’s other leg, yanking hard, pulling him off balance. Guillame fell with an angry huff of surprise. Aramis pushed himself from the floor, trying to regain his footing, but Guillame launched himself with a cry of outrage and grabbed the Musketeer by the front of his doublet, swinging him around dizzily, pressing him down and back against the table.

Bent backwards across the unforgiving surface, Aramis winced as his head hit the wood, the sudden ringing in his ears almost concealing the woosh of a dagger being unsheathed. He reached up, catching Guillames arm just as the bandit tried to thrust down. Knowing if he let up he would more than likely feel the pierce of a knife through his chest, he concentrated his efforts on keeping the man’s arm at bay while fumbling for something – anything – he could use as a weapon against him. 

“You surprise me, Musketeer.” Guillame was breathing hard, his voice edged with disdain. “I did not expect such resistance from a blind man.”

“Temp… porarily… blind,” Aramis grunted out between clenched teeth. He could smell the man’s sweat, the cheap wine on his breath and the odor made his stomach roll. His groping hand came in contact with the overturned wine bottle, teetering precariously near the edge of the table. Pulling it toward him with his fingertips as his hold on Guillame’s arm began to wane, he grasped it around the neck and swung it up with all his might.

Guillame went limp, the dagger falling harmlessly from his grip to clang against the floor. He fell forward onto Aramis who immediately pushed him off, stumbling as he straightened, his hand moving around to knead his aching back. He slowly leaned forward, one hand braced against his thigh, the other still pressing against his lower back where the edge of the table had dug in. Panting as he swallowed his heart back down into his chest, he dropped to his knees and felt for Guillame, his hand coming down instead on the blade of the dagger. He twirled it, grabbing the handle and reached forward, finding Guillame’s still body. The man was breathing, but he offered no resistance when Aramis pushed against him, his head rolling easily, blessedly unconscious. Aramis sank back onto his haunches and sighed in relief, realizing the fight was done and he had, surprisingly, prevailed.

Just as he made to go back to check on Athos, more footsteps rapidly approached and the door was thrown open. Aramis tensed, surging forward on one knee, holding the dagger before him threateningly. 

“Stand down, son.”

It took a moment for Treville’s voice to register, but once it did it was as if all energy deserted him and he dropped once to the floor, his shoulders slumped, his head down.

A low groan from his left filtered through his sudden exhaustion.

“Athos!” 

He crawled back across the floor, his arms bumping Athos’ leg, barely registering Treville’s order for someone to secure the prisoner behind them. 

“Easy, my friend,” Aramis soothed and dropped to the floor next to the wounded man, his own aches forgotten under his concern for his friend. He placed a hand on Athos’ chest, smiling as the older man’s ribs expanded rhythmically with each breath. “How is your head?”

“Still attached, apparently.”

“I will have to take your word for it.” Aramis sighed, relieved the man was awake and coherent.

“Blood is incredibly hard to remove from leather.”

Aramis chuckled at Athos’ droll voice. “I believe your wardrobe is safe. Though you may have quite the problem removing it from your hair.”

“It is not my blood I’m concerned about.”

Aramis stilled, his brow furrowing in confusion. Athos’ hand encircled his wrist and gently moved it from its place on his chest.

“Your hand, Aramis. Do you not feel the gash?”

Aramis attempted to tighten his hand into a fist, instantly aware of the pain as his fingers moved. He hissed as Athos wound a soft cloth around his palm and forced his fingers to bend, holding the cloth down tight.

“Aramis?”

“I didn’t… it must’ve happened during the fight.”

“The fight?” Aramis leaned back as Athos pushed himself onto an elbow. Treville’s footsteps approached and he felt the warmth of the Captain’s body as he knelt down beside him.

“Are you both all right?”

“Athos has a head wound,” the marksman informed him immediately. “He should be seen by a surgeon as soon as possible.”

“I am in no immediate danger,” Athos argued. “And I have apparently missed all the excitement. I take it Guillame is no longer a threat?”

Aramis huffed a laugh, imagining the state of the normally tidy room. It was obvious from the grunts and shuffling behind them that Guillame was being taken into custody by the men who had accompanied Treville. “The Captain seems to have everything well in hand.”

“I thank you for your timely arrival, Captain.”

“Do not thank me. The credit goes to Aramis. He handled the intruder,” Treville said with a hint of pride. 

Aramis felt their eyes on him. “I cannot see, but that does not mean I can’t fight.”

“I would never presume to suggest such a thing.” 

Aramis shook his head, chuckling at the irony of the situation. “You were unconscious,” he shrugged. “How would it look if one bandit was able to overcome two trained Musketeers with a single shot? Imagine the Captain’s embarrassment at such an occurrence.”

“The integrity of the regiment is safe,” Treville acknowledged, the smile apparent in his voice. “I assume this is our mysterious Monsieur Guillame?”

“One and the same,” Aramis nodded. “I recognized his voice from the alley beside the warehouse.” He tilted his head toward Athos. “He fired from outside, grazing Athos’ head. The wound is shallow but more than likely will require some needlework.”

Treville patted a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Aramis.” He rose and retreated back across the room, taking charge of the prisoner, leaving the two Musketeers alone. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said softly. “The shot he fired was no doubt meant for me.”

“Then I am glad I was standing in the way,” Athos responded. “After all, you’ve always told me my head is much harder than anyone you’ve ever met.”

Aramis managed a laugh. “I never expected you to prove it in such dramatic fashion, but at the moment I shall refrain from saying I told you so.”

“Your restraint is much appreciated.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis’ house had never caused Athos to feel the least bit claustrophobic, but Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s arrival clearly demonstrated how tiny the room was. As the two Musketeers squeezed in alongside Treville, Guillame and the other two men he’d brought as escort, Athos couldn’t help but feel crowded.

“What’s been happening here now?”

The new arrivals pushed past Treville, eyeing the unconscious man on the floor and hurried to kneel beside their companions. Porthos glanced at him with concern, taking in the blood on the side of his head before relinquishing him to d’Artagnan’s ministrations and turning his attention to Aramis,

“Anyone goin’ to explain all this?” 

“Guillame managed to shoot me through the window then entered to attack Aramis.” Athos explained as d’Artagnan helped him from the floor. Porthos’ hand came down to guide Aramis up and to a chair. 

“So that was Guillame?” d’Artagnan asked. “He didn’t look so good.”

“One rarely does when hit upside the head with a wine jug.”

Porthos carefully peeled the cloth from Aramis’ hand, his eyes shifting from Aramis to Athos, widening in surprise. “For Athos’ sake, I hope the jug was empty.”

“Funny, I didn’t stop to check.” Aramis gave him a cheeky grin, which elicited an eye roll from the other three.

Athos shifted, grunting his displeasure as d’Artagnan’s fingers probed the gash on his head. “Not that it makes a difference now, but what did Flea find that was so urgent?” He pushed the Gascon’s hand away and placed the now folded sash back against the wound.

“She brought us one of the bandits.”

Both Athos’ and Aramis heads came up as one.

“That was incredibly considerate of her,” Aramis quipped. “I don’t suppose he told you who else was involved?”

Porthos shook his head. “He didn’t know. And we probably will never be able to find ‘im again to ask.”

“You did not arrest him?” 

Porthos sighed and ran a hand across the top of his head, then shook it from side to side in answer to Athos question. “He wasn’t a criminal. He was just someone who made a bad decision and got caught up in a situation beyond his control.”

“Besides,” d’Artagnan added, “he had no idea who Guillame was working for. And he offered to return the gold he was paid.” He shrugged, exchanging a knowing look with Porthos. “Like Porthos said, he wasn’t a bad man, merely a desperate one. He told us what he knew. Sending him to the Bastille wouldn’t help anyone.”

Athos nodded. “I’m sure your decision was fair, but if Guillame was working for someone, we need to find out who. If there is still a threat to the King’s treasury, we must ascertain the source.”

“Perhaps our friend Guillame will help us with that,” Aramis said, his voice hard. “Although I do hope he resists for at least a while.”

Porthos chuckled. “I’m sure Treville will see that he does.”

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Captain Treville burst through the door to his office, pausing in surprise as he caught sight of the four Musketeers lounging about the room. Aramis and Athos, most probably in deference to their recent injuries, had claimed the two chairs, while Porthos and d’Artagnan each leaned against a wall, arms folded across their chests in mirror images of the other. 

“Make yourselves at home,” Treville grumbled. “By all means.”

He tossed his gloves onto his desk as he rounded the wooden structure and dropped wearily into the chair behind it.

“I take it your conversation with Guillame did not go as well as hoped,” Athos intoned.

“No,” Treville snapped, frustrated. “It did not. The man just sat there smiling. No amount of threat would force him to speak.” He stood and crossed the room, pulling a bottle from a cupboard and some small cups. He motioned with his head for d’Artagnan to grab a few more and follow him back across the room. When the Gascon set the cups down on the desk, Treville filled them all with a fine scented brandy. Without waiting for the others, he picked one up and downed the contents before refilling it and wordlessly inviting the others to do the same.

Athos took two and guided Aramis’ hand, setting one in his grip, waiting for the marksman to acknowledge he had it before saluting the Captain with his own and downing it in one gulp. As soon as they had all partaken, they settled back into their positions, awaiting the Captain’s report.

“It’s apparent he was not working alone,” Treville began, rubbing a hand across his face. “But he will not be easy to break. He believes whomever this mysterious patron is, he will be protected and therefore is uninclined to give up a name.”

“Then we can conclude he is associated with someone who could be considered impervious to scrutiny.”

“Only the King ‘imself would fall into that category.”

Athos nodded, agreeing with Porthos’ assessment.

“But there are many who believe they are untouchable,” Aramis mused. “The Cardinal comes directly to mind.”

Treville grunted his opinion. “I do not believe even the Cardinal would sanction the theft of France’s gold.”

“At least not in such an obvious plot,” d’Artagnan added.

Treville’s eyes flashed for a moment, but could only concede the young man’s point. “If the Cardinal wanted the King’s money, he would simply take it. There is no one to stop him from claiming it for whatever purpose he desired.” He shook his head. “No, as much as I disdain the man, I hold fast to the notion that he does hold France’s best interest at heart.”

“Then who else?” Aramis asked the question on all their minds.

“Perhaps Monsieur Guillame would bend to a different type of persuasion,” Athos suggested. “One a bit less… direct.”

The others shifted, the swordsman’s words having captured their attention.

Treville leaned forward, his eyes curious. “Tell me exactly what you have in mind.” 

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

Guillame grunted as he struggled against the ropes binding his wrists to the chair. He’d been able to fool the Musketeers up until now, even going so far as to goad the Captain into striking him in frustration when his questions were not answered. He knew Colbert would receive word of his capture, convinced the man would find a way to set him free – though he couldn’t help but note the Minister was taking his own sweet time with it.

He tugged at the ropes again, a low growl rumbling in his throat at the strength of the knots. If nothing else, these Musketeers knew how to confine a prisoner. 

“You’re just going to make it worse.”

He glared at the young Musketeer – d’Artagnan – and snorted in defiance.

“I doubt I will be here long enough to find out.”

D’Artagnan smiled and tilted his head in amusement. “I don’t know. You look pretty comfortable to me.”

Before he could retort, the door to the room opened and the Musketeer he’d fought the night before stepped inside. Guillame grinned as he watched the soldier grope his way against the wall, the bandages around his head accentuated by the addition of dark bruises about his neck.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan called, immediately moving from his position to lend aid to his comrade. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know. But I couldn’t just sit by while this piece of filth was set free.” The satisfaction Guillame felt at the Musketeers words was enhanced by the tightly controlled fury he detected in his voice.

“What? He’s not going anywhere.” D’Artagnan shot a look at the prisoner before turning his attention back to his friend. “He’s secure, Aramis. What are you talking about? Who is setting him free?”

Aramis shook his head, his fists clenched at his side. “I don’t know. But Treville received orders that he is to be released.”

“Released!” d’Artagnan shouted, outraged. “He shot Athos! He tried to kill you!”

Aramis took a deep breath through his nose. “Apparently he has a powerful patron who has convinced the King of his importance.”

“What? Who?”

“Does it matter?” Guillame sneered. He shifted in his seat, tugging against the ropes again. “If you don’t mind? I do have appointments to keep.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No, I won’t release him without an explanation.” He turned to Aramis. “Where is Treville now?”

“In his office.”

With a final glare to Guillame, the young man hurried out of the room, pushing the door shut behind him.

Aramis leaned back against the wall as d’Artagnan’s footsteps faded into the distance, his countenance suddenly calm, his anger gone. Guillame watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, apprehensive at the composed appearance of the man before him.

“I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to cut me lose before your young friend returns?”

Aramis grinned and pulled a dagger from the sheath behind his back. He held it up, running the sharp edge along his finger. “It would be my honor.”

Guillame swallowed as the blind Musketeer pushed himself off the wall, moving with a grace that defied his condition. The light from the barred window flickered off the steel of the blade, accentuating the weapon’s strength. The Musketeer bled confidence, but Guillame squared his shoulders, knowing the wounded man would not be able to best him twice.

He tensed as Aramis cut the rope, the Musketeer’s strong hand on his shoulder, forcing him to remain in the chair. “I lied,” he whispered. “There is no one coming for you. They wish to make a deal for your cooperation, but I will not allow that to happen. I simply did not want any blame for your death to fall on d’Artagnan.”

Guillame felt the blade behind his ear and tensed, his breath in his throat.

“You took away my sight,” Aramis continued, low and threatening, running the blade lightly along Guillame’s neck. “You took my life. There is nothing left for me here. But before I’m cast out, I will make sure you pay for your crimes.”

The knife pressed into his skin and Guillame reacted, pushing back, throwing the Musketeer off balance and sending the dagger skittering across the floor. Pressing his advantage, he turned and grabbed the Musketeer, slamming him into the wall, grinning as the man’s head made contact with the rough wall and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Looking around fervently, his eyes landed on the dagger lying against the far wall and he laughed. Stepping across the dirt floor, he plucked the knife from the ground, turning it in his hand as his gaze returned to the man lying inert only a few paces away.

As he moved to retrace his steps, a noise from outside reminded him he was still a prisoner and the Musketeers words reverberated in his head.

“I lied. There is no one coming for you.”

Aramis stirred, regaining his wits and Guillame knew his opportunity had evaporated. He needed to act swiftly and could not afford a fight if he wanted to escape without calling attention to himself. 

“It’s your lucky day, Musketeer,” he hissed as he moved to the door, opening it slowly and peeking out into the courtyard beyond. He could see no one within range and quietly slipped across the threshold, disappearing into the shadows.

mmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan hurried back into the room, his eyes scanning the area, quickly determining what had happened. He moved to Aramis and knelt down next to him as the marksman moaned and raised a hand to the back of his head.

“Aramis?”

The downed man waved a hand and with another low groan, pushed himself up, leaning tiredly against the wall. “Guillame?” 

“Gone,” d’Artagnan responded. “Do you think he bought it?”

Aramis nodded and took a deep breath, smiling. The Gascon grabbed his arm as he swayed. “I believe it was a worthy performance. Porthos and Athos?”

“On his trail,” d’Artagnan confirmed. “If Athos is right, Guillame will head to whomever he’s been working for, they will follow him.” He stepped back, taking a moment to assess his friend. “You sure you’re all right? It looks like you took quite a hit.”

“I’m fine, my friend,” Aramis patted the younger man’s arm. “And I will feel much better once our thief and his patron are locked away.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

“He better be all right,” Porthos growled, his eyes focused on the distant figure of Guillame, hurrying through the Parisian streets. They’d made the bandit the moment he stepped outside the archway, staying out of sight until the man had determined his escape successful and headed off toward the Pont Neuf. 

“Aramis can take care of himself,” Athos said evenly.

“He’s blind.”

“Yes, but he managed to take down Guillame, unarmed and alone.”

Porthos let out a long stream of air through his nose. “I know.”

They stepped back behind some shrubbery as Guillame looked around before crossing the bridge and setting out toward the Louvre.

“I’m sure d’Artagnan would have found a way to alert us if something untoward had happened.” Athos squinted in the late morning light, a sign his headache had yet to abate. “It seems our friend is heading towards the palace.”

“Maybe the Cardinal is involved after all?”

Athos shook his head as he frowned, hurrying across the footpath, his eyes locked on Guillame’s rushing form in the distance. “Treville doubts the Cardinal’s involvement and I agree. Open theft just isn’t his style.” They rounded a corner and paused, watching as Guillame slipped through a break in the tall shrubbery surrounding the palace grounds.

“Looks as if Guillame has ‘is own private entrance,” Porthos observed. “S’pose we’ll have to make sure that’s closed for good.”

Athos nodded. “I’m sure the Red Guard would be interested to know of the breach in their perimeter.” He motioned for Porthos to follow, and they quietly slipped through the hedges, never losing sight of their target.

The two Musketeers exchanged a glance as Guillame made his way to the wing of the Louvre that housed the administrative offices and stepped onto the portico, acting as if he belonged.

“He’s certainly a cheeky one,” Porthos whispered as they crouched behind a flowerbed near the edge of the garden. “Struttin’ around like he owns the place.”

“Better to hide in plain sight,” Athos returned. “Come on.”

They quickly made their way to the arch Guillame had disappeared through, pressing against the side and peeking into the long corridor beyond.

“See ‘im?”

Athos nodded. “Minister Colbert’s office.” He pulled back and smiled at his friend. “I believe we have discovered who Guillame was working for.”

“The Finance Minister?” Porthos shook his head. “But why the game? Why not just take the gold without a fuss?”

Athos shrugged. “If the gold was publicly stolen, no one would be the wiser. There would be no reason to cast aspersions upon the Minister.”

“He’d get away clean,” Porthos agreed.

“Unfortunately for him,” Athos continued, drawing his sword and giving his friend a grin, “things did not go quite according to plan.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Guillame stopped short as he slipped through the doors of Colbert’s office. The place was deserted. No papers strewn across the elaborate mahogany desk, no clerks perched on stools checking accounts or making notations in ledgers. He stepped further into the room, slowly pivoting in a circle, attempting to make sense of what he was seeing.

The place was like a tomb. 

There were no torches lit, and even in the bright light of midday, it was dark and oppressive inside the office. He’d often wondered how Colbert’s clerks could stand to work in such dreary confines, knowing being trapped inside these walls for the better part of each day would certainly drive him mad. He made his way behind the desk and pulled open the drawer, dismayed to find the keys to the Minister’s lockbox gone. A quick glance into the far corner of the room proved the box itself was open, empty of all contents.

Guillame uttered a low moan, dropping onto the chair and burying his face in his hands.

The Musketeer hadn’t lied about Colbert deserting him.

It was obvious from the state of the room that the Minister was gone, absconding with the gold, leaving him behind to take the blame.

“It looks as if your patron truly has left you to hang for his crimes.”

Guillame jumped, turning quickly toward the door, dismayed to find two Musketeers leaning against the frame. One held his sword pointing low to the ground, the other, much larger one, merely held a hand on the butt of his pistol, not bothering to draw it, confident their quarry could not escape again.

“This was a trick,” Guillame suddenly knew. “Your friend, the blind one, he hoped I would come here, implicate who I was working for.”

The swordsman nodded. “And you obliged. We owe you our thanks.”

Guillame glared, his eyes narrowing, searching for escape but finding none. He looked back to the soldiers, defiant, his head high. He lifted a side of his lips in an arrogant grin. “Tell your friend I will see him again – even if he won’t see me.”

The larger Musketeer growled and took a step into the room, “If I were you, I’d forget about our friend and start worrying about yourself. The King does not take kindly to people who try to steal what is his.”

“I was merely a player,” Guillame stated. “The King will want the man who orchestrated the plot. I will be of little consequence.”

“Then you should decide right here and now to confess everything and throw yourself at the King’s mercy.” The Musketeer moved forward until he stood directly on the other side of the desk. He slowly placed both fists against the smooth wood and leaned forward, his eyes dark, his head low as he glowered at Guillame menacingly. “’Cause you see, I’m goin’ to need a very good reason not to break you into pieces for what you’ve done.”

Guillame stared back defiantly for a moment, but the Musketeer showed no concession, knowing he had already won. Guillame let out a long breath through his nose, his bravado evaporating under the Musketeer’s relentless gaze. He nodded, defeated. “I… I will tell the King of Colbert’s plan. He left me to shoulder the blame. I owe him nothing.”

The big man snorted an indignant laugh through his nose. “Good choice.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As Porthos approached the armory, a softly hummed melody drifted through the open door bringing a smile to his face. It had been a week since Guillame had been brought before the King, confessing his part in the robbery and being sentenced to five years in the Bastille in return for his cooperation against Minister Colbert. The King had not been happy having to deal with the man, but his anger toward his former Minister was formidable and, thanks to the Cardinal’s and Treville’s wise council, had elected to incarcerate the bandit instead of execute him for his crimes – at least until Colbert could be found and brought to justice before the court.

The wily former minister was proving to be a bit more difficult to apprehend than expected. He had escaped Paris – probably the moment he heard of Guillame’s capture by the Musketeers – and hadn’t been seen since. Treville had been ordered to send scouts out to the surrounding villages to ascertain whether anyone of Colbert’s description had passed, but so far, the reports had been less than encouraging. At least Treville had managed to keep them out of the search for the time being, giving Aramis time to heal and keeping Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan close enough to make sure he didn’t push himself unduly.

Aramis had insisted on staying at his own lodgings for most of the week and they, in turn, had insisted upon staying with him, making sure at least one of them was present when the disorienting darkness made him restless during the night or lethargic from lack of sleep during the day. It had been a trying time, but eventually the garden had calmed his soul and balanced him enough to return to the garrison before the Captain could think them taking advantage of his generosity.

As he stepped through the door, Porthos leaned back against the side of the frame and crossed his arms, smiling at the sight before him. Aramis had at least a dozen muskets lined up on the table in front of him, all but one clean, whole and gleaming. The final weapon was still in pieces, the marksman running a soiled cloth through the barrel. He seemed unaware of being watched, relaxed and content as his nimble fingers played along the length of the weapon as surely as if he could see it.

“Looks like you really can do that with your eyes closed,” Porthos remarked after a moment.

Aramis smiled and tilted his head toward the door as if he’d known Porthos was standing there all along. “Don’t act as if you are so surprised, my friend. I would never lay claim to such a talent if it were not in fact true.”

Porthos chuckled and moved into the room, picking up one of the cleaned muskets and setting it back against the wall where it belonged. “I doubt these have ever been so clean. The new recruits are goin’ to look good, even if they can’t hit the side of a barn.”

“Sometimes the mere illusion of aptitude is enough to sway a situation in your favor,” Aramis offered.

“And sometimes it pays to hit what you aim at.”

The marksman dipped his head in acknowledgement, his smile wavering. “To help with that, I will have to wait for this bandage to be removed.” 

Porthos sighed, knowing how hard these weeks had been on his friend. “Soon, ‘Mis.”

Aramis nodded solemnly. “I know. I keep telling myself it will all be over and that I must remain patient, but…”

“It’s been rough, I know.”

“Truly. This has been one of the most trying situations I can recall.” He sighed, laying the musket on the table. “At least I now know that even if my sight is never the same, I can still be useful. I may not be the man I was, but I will still have a place here. I will still be of value to the regiment.” 

“You’ll always be of value to us, ‘Mis. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He lifted his chin and turned his head in Porthos’ direction. “Thank you my friend. I can only imagine how much more difficult this would’ve been without knowing you were there to catch me should I stumble and fall.”

Porthos eyed the pristine muskets lying along the table. “I’d say you managed fine on your own.”

Aramis’ hands returned to work on the musket barrel as he abruptly changed the subject. “I doubt you came here to aid me in my task, and I don’t smell Serge’s cooking, so it can’t be time for supper. Perhaps you simply longed for my company?”

“Always,” Porthos grinned. “But I actually came to tell you the Captain wants to see us.”

“Oh?” Aramis quickly finished with the musket, showing off by snapping it back together with a precision that impressed even Porthos. He placed it alongside the others and stood, wiping his hands on another cloth before reaching for his hat that lay beside him on the bench. He placed it on his head and started for the door, turning back toward Porthos as he crossed the threshold. “I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting then. You coming?”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos and d’Artagnan met them on the landing outside Treville’s office. Without a word, Athos took hold of Aramis’ arm and led him inside, guiding him to the chair in front of the desk. Aramis’ first instinct was to protest the help, but he knew his friend’s actions were fueled by concern and managed to quell his objections to the unaccustomed assistance. It was only for a short amount of time, and if it brought comfort to his friends to lend a hand, so be it. After all they had done for him, he would not begrudge them so simple an act of kindness.

As soon as he was seated, Treville cleared his throat and began. “As you know, we have been sending out scouts to nearby towns and villages, trying to ascertain the location of former Minister Colbert.”

“Has there been word?”

“Unfortunately, no,” the Captain answered in response to Athos’ inquiry. “But the King is adamant he be found.”

“I’d like to have a word or two with ‘im myself.”

Aramis grinned at Porthos’ low murmur. “Patience, my friend. A man as arrogant as Colbert cannot remain hidden for long.”

“Aramis is right,” d’Artagnan offered. “And with all that gold, he’s going to make a mistake. When he shows his head, somebody will notice.”

“And we will, hopefully, have the good luck to be informed,” Treville agreed. “When we do have information as to his whereabouts, His Majesty has offered the four of you the chance to apprehend him personally, if you’re interested?”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “Oh we’re interested all right. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Very well. I will inform the King of your intent. As soon as we have any information, it will be forwarded to you.”

Aramis nodded, knowing the others had also silently shown their agreement.

“In the meantime,” the Captain continued, “I am afraid you will still be responsible for your regular duties.”

The collective sigh from the three standing men was not lost on Aramis. He dropped his head to hide the fond smile that lifted his lips. He had suspected Treville had been purposely keeping the other’s duties light in order for them to keep an eye on him, but having the notion confirmed out loud made his chest tighten momentarily.

“It shouldn’t be long before these bandages are removed,” Aramis said after a marked silence. “I appreciate all you have done for me these past weeks, but the Captain is right. Whether my sight is impaired or not, if I am to continue to be a part of this regiment, I must learn to deal with things on my own.”

Before anyone could respond, a knock sounded on the door and Treville called for the new arrival to enter.

“Ah, Doctor, please come in.” 

“I hope I am not intruding. I was told I could find… ah, here he is.”

“You are most welcome, Doctor. Please come in.” The Captain’s chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood, the sound startling Aramis, making him realize he had been holding his breath since the physician’s identity was announced. 

He felt a hand descend to his shoulder as the physician’s shuffling steps approached and took a deep breath. He’d gone over this moment so many times in his mind, but now that it was truly here, he had no idea how to quell the fear that gripped him. 

The physician’s steps came to a stop just beside his chair. 

“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” Athos voice came from just above and behind him, and he quickly realized it was the swordsman’s hand that was anchoring him. He breathed in and let the air out slowly in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart.

“Doctor,” he greeted, hoping his voice sounded much more confident than he felt. “I hope your arrival means this ordeal is at an end?”

Athos’ hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Apparently his casual demeanor was more transparent than he’d hoped.

“I believe it is time to see if the damage has repaired itself.” Another scraping of wood against the floor told Aramis a chair had been placed beside him for the doctor. He took another deep breath and nodded, straightening his shoulders as the man began to unwind the cloth around his eyes. “Once I remove the bandage, refrain from opening your eyes until I give you word. Young man, could you please close the door and draw the shutters?”

D’Artagnan’s quick steps heralded his compliance even as Porthos’ heavier gate moved to stand at his other side. Aramis let the familiar presence calm him, knowing no matter what happened next, his brothers would always stand beside him, keeping him from falling.

“All right,” the doctor dabbed a wet cloth against his closed lids. “The light has been dimmed as much as possible, but I want you to open your eyes slowly. Let them adjust to the brightness before making any judgements.”

Aramis nodded, swallowing hard. This was it. His entire future hinged on this one moment. Once he opened his eyes, the truth – whatever it may be – would no longer be in doubt. He squeezed his eyes tightly, working up the courage to face that truth. He felt Porthos kneel at his side, the man’s hand coming to rest on his arm. Athos’ palm remained on his shoulder, his grip bruisingly tight, fear for his friend bleeding through his silence.

“Aramis.”

He turned his head toward Porthos’ soft voice and leaned toward his friend, ashamed of his fear, seeking courage in the man’s solid presence.

“Aramis, open your eyes.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The silence in the room was heavy with anticipation as four sets of eyes focused intently on the fifth’s. Aramis’ eyes cracked open a sliver, closing immediately as the light invaded his prolonged darkness. Tears leaked from beneath his lashes and he gasped, lowering his head and pressing a hand against his lids.

Porthos reached up and gently pulled the hand away, dipping his head so that he could see his friend’s face.

“It’s all right, ‘Mis. Just take your time. We’re in no hurry here.”

Aramis took a deep breath and raised his head, nodding once as he wiped harshly at his wet cheek. 

“My apologies,” he began, but got no further.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” D’Artagnan stepped closer, stopping just behind the marksman’s right shoulder next to Athos. He placed his hand on Aramis’ upper arm and Aramis smiled, feeling the grips of all three of his friends tighten in support.

“The whelp’s right,” Porthos continued. “Take as much time as you need. We’ve got no place else to be right now.”

Aramis nodded again and slowly cracked open his eyes. The tears fell against his cheeks as he blinked quickly, trying to clear them. Again he raised a hand to wipe at his eyes, but it was staid by the physician’s, holding his arm down against his leg as Porthos’ was doing on the other side.

“Let the tears do their job,” the old man cautioned. “It’s a natural reaction to the light.”

Aramis took a shaking breath and forced his eyes to remain open. He squinted against the light, swallowing down the obvious discomfort. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he shifted his gaze, his brown eyes slowly focusing on Porthos’.

He blinked a few times and smiled tremulously. “Don’t take this the wrong way my friend, but you look terrible. When is the last time you slept properly?”

Porthos huffed a laugh, relief evident in the sound. “You’re an idiot.”

“So you’ve said.”

Porthos stared into the familiar eyes. They were still painfully red in places, and thick tears spilled over the lashes like rain, but they were looking back at him with a relief that equaled his own. It was enough to let the fear he’d been harboring for weeks drain from his body like a sieve. 

“What can you see?” the physician asked as he drew Aramis’ face toward him with a hand cupped beneath his chin. “Is what you see clear? Hazy?” He gently pulled at Aramis’ lids as he assessed the condition of the eyes, grunting in satisfaction as the marksman responded.

“Things are a bit… blurred.” He blinked away more moisture as the doctor released him. “But getting clearer by the moment.”

The doctor nodded. “Good. I suspect your vision will return to normal within a few days.” If he noticed the collective sigh of relief from the others in the room, he showed no sign. “Do you own a hat?”

Aramis’ brows went up at the question and d’Artagnan huffed a laugh.

“Does he own a hat?” the Gascon snorted, holding up the article from where it was perched on Treville’s desk. “I believe he counts it among his most prized possessions.”

“Then I suggest you wear it whenever outside for the next few days,” the doctor instructed. “Stay away from direct sunlight for now. Indoors as much as possible. By this time next week, if you are still having difficulties, send someone for me.”

With a final nod to the gathered Musketeers, he stood, grabbed his bag and took his leave.

D’Artagnan moved to close the door, keeping the bright sunlight at bay for the time being, and Treville rounded his desk. As he dropped back into his chair, he couldn’t quite hide his smile.

“It’s good to see you well, Aramis.”

“Never doubted it for a minute,” Porthos stood, slapping a hand against his friend’s back. 

“Nor did I,” Athos intoned.

Arching his neck, Aramis turned until he was able to see the swordsman’s face. “Because I’m like a cat?” he grinned through the still flowing tears.

Athos nodded and returned the smile. “No matter how far you fall….”

“I’ll always land on my feet.” Aramis finished for him. “I am beginning to like the sound of that.”

Porthos chuckled and shook his head, grabbing Aramis’ hat from d’Artagnan and dropping it onto its owners head. “Then what do you say we take our cat out to celebrate, eh?” He turned to Treville. “You joinin’ us, Captain?”

Treville looked at the open, happy faces of his four best men. “I believe I just might.”

Aramis wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and bowed, smiling toward his commanding officer. “It would be our honor, sir.”

“I wonder if the Wren serves cream,” d’Artagnan wondered aloud.

Porthos’ hearty laugh filled the courtyard as the five Musketeers made their way down the stairs.

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what about Colbert, you ask? That is another story… literally. The sequel is already underway and the Musketeers are eager to bring the former Finance Minister to justice. Stay tuned to find out what happens!! I know, cruel, but since I have a short attention span, I can’t seem to write a story with a gazillion chapters. So sequel!! Yay!


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